


Just One Of The Girls

by skoosiepants



Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Panic At The Disco, The Academy Is...
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossdressing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-10-19
Updated: 2007-10-19
Packaged: 2017-10-07 01:41:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/60035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skoosiepants/pseuds/skoosiepants
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Spence, I'm. Look, I'm going to prove this girl-thing to you, okay? I'm going to," he held up his hands, "this is so brilliant, I'm going to <i>become a girl</i>."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just One Of The Girls

**Author's Note:**

> Just One Of The Guys movie AU. Major, huge thanks go to the wonderful joyfulseeker, who suffered through beta'ing two versions of this without punching me in the head, and to the lovely castoffstarter for doing the final edit and inserting comments that not only cracked me up, but kind of got me to like this story again, at least a little bit. And I'm going to thank natacup82 again for organizing reel_band because she's awesome. Without her, it is possible that I never would have put Ryan in a skirt. Oh, who am I kidding, Ryan in drag is just one baby-step away from canon, right?
> 
> [download the soundtrack](http://community.livejournal.com/muse_to_match/3269.html)

Ryan was a creature of habit. He woke up each morning just in time to shower, grabbed a poptart on his way out the door, and he and Spencer always pulled into the school parking lot too late to swing by their lockers before the homeroom bell.

Junior year wasn’t much different than the year before – except Spencer had a car, which was awesome, so they no longer had to rely on Spencer’s mom to drop them off. Ryan wouldn’t be caught dead riding the _bus_, hadn’t ridden the bus since his first day of freshman year. And his class schedule might have been new, but he still had to suffer through homeroom with Ashlee Simpson, the most annoying girl ever born, who wouldn’t shut up even when Ryan sent her death glares across the room and tried to will her mouth closed with the power of his mind, and Brendon Urie, who was unnaturally cheery and bright-eyed in the morning. He was so goddamn sunny Ryan kind of wanted to punch him.

“Woke up extra angry today?” Spencer asked as they rushed out of the classroom. They had three minutes to get to their lockers and Ryan had Trig first period, all the way on the other side of the building.

“I—” Ryan stumbled, rubbed his shoulder and glowered over at Brendon, who flushed bright red and said, “Sorry, Ryan, sorry, I tripped.”

“Hey, Brendon,” Spencer said, nodding at him.

Ryan rolled his eyes. “Whatever,” he said flatly. “Watch where you’re going.”

Brendon opened his mouth, closed it again and then Ashlee was there with this murderous glare, wrapping an arm around Brendon’s shoulders. “Fuck off, Ross,” she growled, then tugged Brendon off the opposite way down the hall.

Ryan pursed his lips. “Is it just me, or do they get more annoying each year?”

“It’s just you,” Spencer said. He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Come on, or we’ll be late.”

*

Two weeks into the school year Ryan’s opinion hadn’t changed much. Three weeks, and Ryan was in what seemed like a constant state of pissed off, tempered by bouts of mild annoyance. It was still the same old shit, only now he had college applications to worry about.

He slammed his locker shut with a curse, and Spencer arched an eyebrow at him, slipping his book bag over one shoulder.

“Seriously, what’s crawled up your ass lately?” Spencer asked.

“Ms. Ivarsson,” Ryan growled.

“I don’t know, man,” Spencer said, lips quirked up a little, and Ryan was seriously so close to punching him. “Maybe the world just isn’t ready for an essay on turn of the century prostitutes.”

Ryan settled for ignoring him and said, “It’s, like, wall to wall girls in there.”

“Yeah, _that’s_ why they won’t publish you.” Spencer rolled his eyes. “Give it up, Ryan. This is _high school_. Not even a very classy one, okay.” They started off down the hall towards the back exit. The school was already almost entirely deserted. “They want articles on fashion and shit, gossip, not the history of syphilis. What’d Ms. Ivarsson say about your last one?”

“Too pretentious,” Ryan grumbled. It’d been insightful, though, and Ryan was sure she hadn’t even really _read_ it, because Spencer was sort of right. They wanted fluff pieces, shitty advice column crap. “It’s still a girl’s club, though,” Ryan insisted. “I bet they’d make me staff, give me assignments if I had tits.”

“Brendon’s on staff,” Spencer pointed out, pushing open the heavy metal doors leading to the back parking lot.

Ryan squinted into the bright autumn sun. “I’m pretty sure Brendon’s actually a girl, Spencer,” Ryan said. He wore tiny purple hoodies with unicorns on them and shit. Rainbows and sparkles, even.

“Jon Walker, then.”

“He does _sports_,” Ryan stressed. “Jon is, like, the exception that proves the rule or whatever.”

“Right,” Spencer said, voice dry.

It was hot out for September, scent of tar strong as they walked towards the football field, Spencer’s car parked along the fence.

“Fuck them, anyway.” Ryan jerked open the back door of the ancient Jetta. He needed the goddamn extracurricular activity for his scholarship applications, but _fuck them_. He glared narrowed-eyed at the school building, noticed a bunch of girls spilling out the doors, and said, “Oh hey, we’re supposed to wait for Brent, I think.”

“I saw him skip out earlier,” Spencer said. He turned over the engine. “Come on, get in. Mom’s making lasagna tonight if you’re interested.”

Ryan was always interested.

*

Ryan sprawled out on Spencer’s bed. “I’m so screwed,” he groaned.

“You were on debate last term,” Spencer said. He was in front of his computer, IMing Brent. “Isn’t that enough?”

“For State, maybe.” Ryan scowled up at the ceiling. “Maybe I’ll try out for football. I mean, sports count for something, too.”

Spencer snorted. “Yeah, and get broken in half. You’d be better off cheering, dude. Or joining _marching band_,” he said pointedly, because Spencer was apparently still bitter about his parents forcing him into the drum line. Ryan was pretty sure Spencer loved it, though, but it was probably the only thing they hadn’t decided to do together. There was absolutely no way Ryan was hefting a heavy instrument up and down the football field.

“Girls cheer—”

“And Brendon, and that big guy, Bryar—”

“_Girls_ cheer,” Ryan started again, sending Spencer a glare, “with the exception of Bryar,” because Bryar was the kind of guy who could pretty much do anything he wanted and he’d maybe break your face if you said one word against it, “and girls write kitschy, meaningless columns for the _Ridley Tiger Times_, and—”

“You’re sort of a misogynist, right?” Spencer asked, and Ryan could tell he was only halfway teasing. “And seriously, lay off Brendon. He’s a nice guy.”

Ryan pulled a pillow over his face and let out a scream. He really wanted the _Times_ on his transcript. He _really_ wanted it, wanted to be able to pad his college applications with published examples of his work, but the only possible way he was ever going to get anywhere with the school paper was if he was a _girl_, and that clearly wasn’t ever going to happen, unless he had some sort of spontaneous sex change and wait. _Wait_.

When he huffed air again, Spencer was looking at him in amusement.

“Feel better?”

“Yeah.” Yeah, and he also had this _brilliant idea_, and he sat up, hand cupped over his mouth. “Spence.”

Spencer eyed him warily. “What?”

“Spence, I’m. Look, I’m going to prove this girl-thing to you, okay? I’m going to,” he held up his hands, “this is so brilliant, I’m going to _become a girl_.”

Wariness gave way to incredulous disbelief, coloring his cheeks pink, and then Spencer burst out laughing. “Oh my god, you’re insane,” he gasped.

“I’m a genius,” Ryan countered, not really offended, because not only would he most likely end up with the coveted Staff Writer label for his transcript, it would prove to the entire school that a prejudiced bunch of assholes were in charge of the school paper. He wasn’t pretentious. He was worldly and _intelligent_ and he cared about things other than who the fuck was dating who and what belt was appropriate to wear with what pair of fugly pants.

“Okay, right, you’re a genius,” Spencer said, still sort of laughing, with that mischievous gleam he always got in his eyes when he couldn’t wait for someone to make an ass out of himself. Ryan was only occasionally in that role. “Let’s go raid my sister’s closet.”

*

Stacey snapped her gum and swung her legs up, flopping back on her bed. “Pink,” she said, and Ryan glared and said, “I’m not wearing pink.”

“Red then,” Spencer said, holding up a short skirt, wagging it in the air, mouth still curled up in a shit-eating grin. “Dude, your _legs_.”

“Whatever.” Ryan grabbed the skirt and jerked at his belt, pulling it open.

Stacey squawked, slapped her palm over her eyes. “Geez, Ryan.”

“Keep your eyes closed,” Ryan said, peeling off his tight jeans and shimmying into the brightly colored skirt. He looked down, watching the material swirl around his thighs, and tried not to think about how well he fit into a thirteen-year-old girl’s clothes. “I have to shave my legs.”

“Words I never ever thought I’d hear from you,” Spencer said, rolling his eyes. “Here, this, too.” He tossed Ryan a cream blouse, little ruffles at the capped sleeves.

“Wait.” Stacey rolled off the bed and stalked across the room. “Bra first.”

“You know I don’t actually have boobs,” Ryan said. He pressed his palms to his flat chest to emphasize that fact.

“Duh. But you’ll _need_ them.” She handed him a plain white bra and he wrinkled his nose in distaste. It looked sort of. Serviceable.

“Anything prettier?” he asked, and Spencer groaned.

Stacey glared at him and said, “You could always go out shopping, you know. I’m only doing this out of the goodness of my heart.”

“Yeah, and your burning need to watch Ryan make a fool out of himself,” Spencer added.

Stacey grinned, sharp. “Oh, like you aren’t in this for the same thing.”

“Your support is overwhelming me,” Ryan deadpanned. He tugged off his t-shirt, slipped his arms into the bra and hooked it with relative ease. Spencer made an impressed sound – it might not have been an impressed sound, but Ryan was gong to go with that for the time being – and then shoved a rolled up sock into each of the cups.

“Lumpy,” Spencer said, squeezing them, and Stacey snickered.

Ryan kind of wanted to slap that smirk off her face, but he was pretty sure Spencer would punch him in retaliation.

*

Ryan thought he made a pretty ugly girl. He was too thin and gangly and Spencer said he had to have, like, these teeny tiny breasts to be all proportional and shit, and when he looked in the bathroom mirror two words came to mind. Pathetic and homely.

Spencer made a face at him over his shoulder. “Makeup, Ross?”

“Stacey,” Ryan said, and ran his fingers through his hair. It was all soft and wavy and conditioned. He eyes were darkly rimmed and his skin was evened out with powder, but she’d left his lips blessedly clean. Ryan probably would’ve just chewed the gloss off, anyway.

“Okay,” Stacey said, wedging herself into the bathroom next to Spencer and tugging on Ryan’s arm until he turned around. “Okay, let’s see how you look.”

“I look like a guy in drag,” Ryan said. He was not bitter about that _at all_, either.

Stacey cupped his chin, pushed his bangs over and out of his eyes. “You’re sort of. Unconventionally pretty,” she said, and Ryan ducked his head a little and smiled slow, looking down at her through his eyelashes and Stacey blinked. “Oh, do that. Do that and bite your lip and you’ll be perfect.”

*

Ryan felt completely ridiculous. His panties were riding up his ass. His skirt was a respectable knee-length, but it was light and gauzy and with every step he felt like it was going to fly up, and he kept smoothing a palm over his ass, checking to make sure his bag wasn’t making the material ride up too high. He couldn’t believe girls actually felt _comfortable_ like this, so open and exposed.

His hands felt too big, and he twisted them self-consciously in the strap of his messenger bag, but no one looked at him askance, no one seemed to recognize him, and Principal Mayer wasn’t the least bit suspicious – or interested, maybe, since Principal Mayer was busy building a house of cards and sucking on an unlit pipe when Ryan had been ushered inside – by the note Spencer had forged. Rhianna was visiting for a couple months while Cousin Ryan was off east looking at colleges and staying with family, and it sounded all kinds of lame, but whatever. It _worked_.

“Hey,” Principal Mayer said, leaning forward, holding out a stick of juicy fruit, “chew on this, and hold that part right here, okay?” and Ryan spent the entire first period of the day erecting walls for Mayer and helping him cheat by sticking gum in hidden places between the cards.

“Got a bet going with Iero,” Mayer said, scratching his chin and planning out his next move.

Ryan blinked and bit his lip to keep from asking, because Iero was that tiny senior who was sick all the time. He was in marching band with Spencer, played the fucking piccolo or something, and he apparently made bets with their weird-ass principal. “Um.”

Mayer held up a hand. “Don’t breathe, don’t breathe,” he said. The third layer quivered, but held strong. “Jesus, that was close. Oh, hey, what’s the time?” He tilted his head at Ryan, eyes narrowed but slightly dazed. Ryan was not entirely sure he wasn’t on something. “Shouldn’t you be in class?”

Ryan wondered if he treated all new students that way, or if Ryan was special.

*

By lunch, Ryan was really getting into the swing of being a girl. He put more amble into his walk, rolling his hips, and re-knotted the silk scarf around his neck at a kicky angle, and he had to admit the heels, while iffy in the beginning – Ryan’d felt like a baby deer, all spindly and wobbly, and Stacey had made him _practice_, and his feet had hurt like a bitch for hours afterwards – seriously made his freshly-shaved legs look awesome.

In the cafeteria, Ryan sent Spencer a cheeky wink across the room and then stalked purposefully towards where Ashlee, Vicky, and Brendon were sitting. If anyone was going to help get him on the school paper, it was going to be those three. Unfortunately.

“Hi,” Ryan said, carefully modulating his voice just a little bit higher. “Can I sit here?”

Brendon lit up, smiling wide. “Sure.”

Ryan fought off an eye-roll. Seriously, Brendon was the biggest dork _ever_, and he couldn’t believe he had to actually spend time with him now. Quality time, with full-on conversations.

The seat across from Vicky slid out, and she gestured with her fork. “Knock yourself out.”

Ryan sat. And then he pulled out the bag lunch Spencer’s mom packed for him – Spencer’s mom always packed his lunch – and he fiddled with his juice box and found himself at a complete loss of what to say.

Vicky was staring at him. “Seriously? Are you serious? A juice box?”

“Um.” Ryan had, for the entire length of time he’d been at school, always sat with Brent, Trevor, and Spencer at lunch. No one had ever commented on his juice box before.

“Apple juice, cool,” Brendon said, nodding, and he wasn’t very slick, so Ryan totally noticed the elbow he jabbed into Vicky’s side.

Vicky slanted Brendon a glare, but left off about Ryan’s lunch. Which Ryan was thankful about, because he was suddenly self-conscious about his peanut butter sandwich and cheese crackers. His confidence faltered, and he dipped his head and bit his lip and he wasn’t even thinking about Stacey’s advice, but he heard Vicky chuckle and say, “Jesus, where the hell did you come from?”

Ryan widened his eyes as he looked back up at her. For effect. “I’m Ryan Ross’s cousin,” he said, and Vicky pulled a face and Ashlee rolled her eyes.

“Oh, honey,” Ashlee said, patting his hand and shaking her head, “I’m so sorry.”

*

What was really great, what was fucking _fantastic_, was having to suffer through an hour of Ashlee and Vicky making fun of Ryan Ross and resisting the urge to kill everyone within his freakishly long reach - Ashlee’s words, not Ryan’s.

“He’s, like, a bone,” Ashlee said. “I don’t think he eats, he’s so tiny, and he’s got these freakishly long limbs, right, and, oh, hon, don’t worry, you’re like, fashionably thin, okay, but it’s sort of gross on a guy, you know what I mean?”

Ryan fought back a snarl. He ate. He ate _plenty_; he just had a really fast metabolism.

Brendon was the only one who seemed to notice Ryan’s growing rage, and his eyes got bigger and bigger until he reached out and slapped a palm over Ashlee’s mouth.

Ashlee jerked back, batting his hand away. “What the—Brendon, what the hell?”

“Sorry,” Brendon muttered. “I just don’t think, um, she wants to hear all that stuff about her cousin, right?” Brendon looked at Ryan, and Ryan’s mind stuttered a little, because _she_ and _her_ and it was just all so weird.

“Um. I mean, he’s family,” Ryan managed lamely. His face felt tight in the effort to hold a semi-polite smile.

“Bren, Brendon, call off your dog, little man,” Jon said, collapsing into the seat next to Ryan, metal feet screeching along the floor. He was breathing hard, red-faced.

Brendon laughed. “You called him ham-fisted and clumsy, Jon Walker. Bob is _graceful_. Bob plays _croquet_.”

“Bob nearly dropped Lindsay during last night’s game,” Vicky pointed out, and Ashlee grumbled, “Because Lindsay’s a skank whore,” with a hefty amount of venom in her tone.

Jon laughed, then turned to Ryan and said, “Hey, I don’t know you.”

“Rhianna,” Ryan said, the name still strange on his tongue. “I’m visiting.”

“Cool.” Jon grinned. He got back to his feet, sliding his hands into his pockets. “Cool, so, I’m gonna go hide in Mr. Nolan’s room now. Tell Bob I’ll buy him a Blizzard or something tonight, okay?”

When the bell rang, Brendon picked up his tray and cocked his head and said, “So we’re meeting at DQ later if you’re interested,” and Ryan nodded, thinking _thank god_, because that had all come about with little effort on his part. Brendon was so fucking friendly, right?

“Okay,” Ryan said, and hoped the evening wouldn’t be a total loss.

*

“I’m in, dude,” Ryan told Spencer, sliding into his car. He tugged at his skirt, making sure his knees were covered. “They love me.”

There was a muffled yell, and Ryan looked up to see Bryar huffing by, Jon tossed over his shoulder and laughing. They were headed towards the soccer field, the croquet team a blur of black-clad figures in the distance.

Jon caught Ryan’s eyes through the windshield and he shouted, “Save me!” and Ryan just smiled a little and shook his head.

Spencer bumped his shoulder. “Okay, so you love _them_,” he said, amused.

“What?”

“You’re, like, in love with them. It’s kind of cute.” Spencer checked his rearview mirror and started backing out of the spot.

Ryan furrowed his brow. He’d spent half the day listening to Ashlee talk about how horrible he, Ryan, was, and he’d had English with Jon and Brendon and, okay, that had been pretty cool, because Jon had awesome theories and shit and they were doing _Hamlet_, and Brendon was this total halfway-amusing ham, apparently, when it came to the _theater_.

Vicky was sort of gorgeous close up, too, and Ryan’d had this one intensely jealous moment when her breasts had been all over Jon’s arm as she’d leaned up against him in Physics - to help with these doodles he’s apparently almost famous for that, as far as Ryan could tell, involved a lot of stick figures and fuzzy animals - and he hadn’t been so much jealous of Jon, strangely, but of her _cleavage_, because Ryan was seriously almost as flat as he’d been as a boy.

Bryar he was reserving judgment on, but only because Bryar could break Ryan’s face, and he apparently didn’t discriminate against girls.

“Whatever,” Ryan said finally, shrugging. “We’re going out for ice cream tonight.”

Spencer laughed. He laughed so hard he spun himself into a coughing fit. When he got himself under control, he said, “They’re totally going to ask you to go steady, right?”

“Asshole,” Ryan muttered, sinking down into his seat.

“I’m picking you up,” Spencer said. “I’m picking you up, because there is no way I’m missing this.”

*

The only sit-down DQ in town was on the corner of Providence and Chester Pike, and it looked the exact same as it probably did when it’d first opened up twenty-five years before. Red, cracked, hard plastic booths, faux wood tables, dark paneled walls and a line of video games between the single-stalled bathrooms and the pick-up counter: Miss PacMan, Asteroids, and a generic Kung Fu.

“This place is kind of pathetic,” Spencer said, tugging open the door and stepping into the cool air.

“It’s retro.”

Ryan nodded at Jon. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Jon said back. He was leaning against the wall of front windows, hands tucked in a dark hoodie he’d probably swelter in if he stepped outside. Then his gaze slipped past Ryan to focus on Spencer and he said again, “It’s retro, Spencer Smith.”

Spencer smirked, and Ryan knocked the back of his head, and then Jon bounced a look between them, eyes narrowed and suspicious. Ryan quickly shifted on a hip, said, “Um, so—” and then the door behind them jerked open and laughter, bright and warm, was soon followed by Brendon and Vicky, Bryar and one of the Way brothers bringing up the rear.

“Walker,” Bryar said, clapping Jon on the shoulder so hard he stumbled sideways. “Coke, no ice, and a Peanut Buster Parfait.”

“Hey, Spencer, hey, cool,” Brendon said, grinning up at him. “I guess you know Rhi through her cousin? That’s awesome.”

Spencer’s brows arched. “Sure.”

“Yes,” Ryan agreed, pinching Spencer’s elbow, and then Brendon announced expectantly, “I want a cookie dough Blizzard.”

Vicky sent him a pointed look. “Brendon.”

Brendon jutted out his lower lip. “Please?”

“You’re so pitiful, Urie, Jesus, _fine_.” Vicky stalked up to the counter, heels clicking loudly on the linoleum.

Brendon leaned into Ryan’s side and whispered, “She loves me,” only it wasn’t really a whisper, because Brendon was sort of incapable of being quiet, and Vicky snapped, “I heard that, Brendon,” over her shoulder.

Brendon just blew her a kiss, still hovering close to Ryan, and Ryan was a little taken aback by the invasion of space, but he didn’t move away. He sent Spencer a helpless little smile, shrugged, and Spencer rubbed his hand over his nose and coughed lightly, eyes sparkling.

Jon hooked an arm around Brendon’s waist and pulled him away from Ryan, lifting him a little in a turn so Brendon laughed. “Go get us some seats,” Jon said, pushing him towards the booths, and Ryan absently wondered why he’d never hung out with these guys before – Jon was kind of cool, actually - and then he thought, _oh yeah, journalistic Nazis_.

Ryan had a _point_ to all this: one that didn’t include simply looking pretty in a dress.

*

When Ashlee showed up, a cap pulled low on her forehead, she slid into the booth next to Brendon, squishing him up against Vicky, and Brendon made the most hilarious face ever, nose wrinkled.

“Girls are great and all, but breasts sort of freak me out,” Brendon said earnestly, and Spencer looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh.

Ryan appreciated the effort.

Vicky turned sideways, scooted back up against the wall, shifting Brendon even closer. He still looked a little disgusted, but he snuggled up to her anyway, making a contented humming sound and letting his eyes fall half-closed.

“Fucking Pete,” Ashlee muttered, rifling through her overlarge purse. She pulled out her cell, jabbing numbers viciously, then flipped her hair over her shoulder and pressed it up to her ear. “I swear,” she went on, “he’s totally in love with that short redheaded kid, the one in band?”

“Patrick?” Spencer asked. “He’s in my section.”

“Oh, right.” Ashlee flashed him a grin, then snapped her cell closed and dropped it back into her bag. “You drum. Seriously,” she leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes eager, “they’re in love, right? Otherwise there’s just no explanation. I waited an hour, V.” She turned to pout across Brendon at her. “We were going to get our nails done together.”

“That’s your clue right there,” Vicky said.

“Whatever, his loss. Is that chocolate?” she asked, snagging Vicky’s milkshake. “Hey, tomorrow night, my sister’s having a party, so. Save me?”

“Your sister’s a ditz.” Vicky reached over and took back her shake with a sharply raised eyebrow.

“My sister’s in _college_, V.” Ashlee twisted in her seat, up on her knees, and leaned over into the next booth. “Bryar, party, bring all your freaky croquet buddies, okay? Hey, Gerard!”

Ryan blinked, cocked his head at her wiggling ass, then she was back around and grinning. “Daddy’ll have a fit. It’ll be awesome.”

“I love you, Ashlee Simpson,” Brendon said without opening his eyes.

Ryan almost felt like he’d been dropped down a rabbit hole. Spencer was grinning this huge grin beside him, completely at ease, and when they hung out with Trevor and Brent, they did boring shit like played video games and lounged around Brent’s basement or something and there was apparently a whole other world out there with gay boys and college parties and ice cream, and it was. It was kind of fun, honestly, when Ryan let himself relax.

On the other hand, Ryan’s bra was slicing his torso in half, his panties were _still_ up his ass, and, despite the restaurant’s cool recycled air, his bare thighs were sticking uncomfortably to the plastic bench. Being a girl sort of sucked.

*

In the most surreal moment yet, Ryan found himself out back at the Simpson house with Greta Salpeter, captain of the fucking cheerleading squad and _Ridley Tiger Times_ senior editor.

Ryan would never normally waste his time on a typical teenage party, honestly, with more alcohol than he’d ever seen in one place and more people making asses of themselves than Ryan had ever cared to see before. It was pretty funny, though, Ryan had to admit, and the music was decent.

Ryan took a pull on his beer, choked on the unfamiliar taste, and felt his face heat up with embarrassment.

Greta just laughed softly, though, and she was seriously the sweetest girl Ryan had ever met, _god_. He’d thought, I’ll get to know her, see the real her, how she must laugh with Ms. Ivarsson over everyone’s submissions, only he honestly couldn’t see her doing that now, because she was so fucking _sweet_.

There was a thump, and then Brendon was pressed up against the sliding glass door, making faces at them. He opened it up and stepped out and said, “Hey, hey. I’m totally hiding from William, okay? He’s, like, molesting my person.”

“Brendon.” Greta shook her head.

“No, this is _serious_. Like, seriously serious,” Brendon insisted, nodding with wide eyes.

“Where’s Bob?” Greta asked, smiling.

“I don’t know. I do not know, Miss Greta. Will you protect me?”

“Aww, Brendon, peanut,” Greta tugged Brendon to her side, curled an arm around his waist. “I’ll keep you safe.”

“You are my very favorite besides Jon Walker,” Brendon said, and then his eyes caught Ryan’s and he smiled.

Brendon had a pretty awesome smile, Ryan thought, and crap. Crap, really? _Brendon_? Ryan totally had to watch his alcohol intake.

*

They’d basically taken over the pool deck, and Pete was buck naked and shouting about traveler’s checks or peanut M&amp;Ms or something – Ryan was only half listening, sort of blinded by the guy’s amazingly hot ass - and it looked like money was exchanging hands over by William and Mike and Dirty and Ryan was feeling _great_. He figured he was probably more than a little buzzed, too.

For a college party, there were an awful lot of Ridley High students there. Most of them were kids Ryan would never in a million years have associated with, like Pete and William and Frank and Greta and Travis, and it wasn’t like they were so much more popular than him – although they were, obviously – but they were all _seniors_, and it looked like Ryan’s only in was Brendon, who was attached at the hip to Bryar, and Ryan wouldn’t normally get within ten feet of Brendon. He was beginning to see that as a mammoth tragedy. Even the Way brothers, who Ryan had always thought were mostly creepy, were completely awesome – Gerard was really almost as sweet as Greta and swept nonexistent dirt off a lounge chair before letting Ryan sit on it, and he’d smiled this huge, gorgeous smile at him - and Toro was making Spencer _snort beer out his nose_, and that was _priceless_.

“Having fun?”

Ryan grinned up at Brendon. “Yeah,” he said. “I kind of am. Your friends are all crazy, though.”

“Oh, well.” Brendon fidgeted back and forth on his feet, fingers tangled in the hem of his t-shirt. “I’m really only friends with Bob and Greta out here. You know.” He waved a hand out towards where a naked Pete was attempting to tackle William into the pool, and Ryan noticed for the first time that Jon, Ashlee, and Vicky were conspicuously absent from the lawn.

“Where are—”

“Downstairs.” Brendon grinned. “We sort of gravitate to the basement at these things, so. Wanna join?”

Ryan nodded. “Let me just get—”

“Oh, oh man,” Spencer stumbled over, flushed and bright-eyed with laughter, hair slick against his cheeks with sweat. “Seriously, we need to get out of here before Ray kills me, okay, because I almost threw up, I laughed so hard, and I’d rather not embarrass myself tonight.” He grinned wide, with all his teeth, and Brendon grabbed his arm.

“Come on, come on, I’ll take you down to our lair, okay? It’s a Ray-free zone, promise.”

*

Ashlee’s basement was dark, but not creepy-dark. Just dim, lit by a few soft yellow lamps. There were even more people down there, mostly people Ryan didn’t recognize, but off in the corner Jon was sitting on an overstuffed sofa, Vicky half in his lap, and Ashlee was sprawled on the floor, legs crossed and foot swinging to the thumping techno bass line from the music upstairs.

“Vicky T,” Brendon said, pouncing on the couch. “Vicky T, love of my life, give us _room_.”

“Watch it, little man.” Jon shifted Vicky further onto his lap, then smiled up at Ryan and Spencer. “Spencer,” he said, patting the cushion between him and Brendon, “squeeze in.”

Spencer laughed, a little breathless, and Ryan watched as he shimmied his way next to Jon, and Jon’s hand drifted from Vicky’s waist to Spencer’s knee, tugging him even closer. Brendon plastered himself up against Spencer’s other side and waved Ryan over.

“Room for everyone but Ashlee,” Brendon said, giggling as he took Ryan’s hand, lacing their fingers together and pulling him down.

Ashlee kicked at him. “Punk,” she said, but there wasn’t any real heat to it.

Brendon tucked his head into the crook of Ryan’s neck, cheek resting along his collarbone.

Ryan tried not to squirm too much, let Brendon curl into him and self-consciously tucked his hands under his thighs. It was okay, he thought, to snuggle a little. He normally liked having his own space, but Brendon was hard to ignore and he was little and warm, and Ryan was a girl, and girls were totally okay with cuddling. He guessed.

“I’m irresistible to women,” Brendon said. “It’s both a boon and a curse.”

“You’re full of shit,” Vicky said.

“It’s the god’s honest truth, Vicky. You should just admit your undying and tragic love for me already so the healing can begin and we can move on with our lives.” Brendon nodded, his hair tickling Ryan’s chin, and Ryan felt sort of too warm all over.

“Full. Of. Shit,” Vicky repeated, but she was laughing.

*

Ryan wasn’t sure if he was insulted or relieved when his dad caught him in the kitchen before school on Monday and didn’t think anything of his outfit. He eyed Ryan’s face, his legs, said, “Nice skirt,” dryly, and then, in an auspicious spin of luck, Spencer showed up, honking his car horn.

“I’m off,” Ryan said, tugging self-consciously at the hem of his skirt and, seriously, his dad was _never_ home that late in the morning. He always left for work at least a half hour before Ryan even got out of bed.

His dad took a casual sip of coffee. “Have a good day at school.”

Ryan grimaced and fled out the back door. “Oh my god,” he said, sliding into Spencer’s car and burying his face in his hands. “My dad thinks I’m gay.”

“Um.”

Ryan peeked out at him from in between his fingers, caught Spencer’s speaking eyebrow arch. “I’m _not_,” Ryan insisted.

“Except for that time you groped me,” Spencer pointed out.

“Once, Spencer, I groped you _once_, and we promised to never ever speak of that again.” Ryan crossed his arms over his chest and scowled at the dashboard. It hadn’t _actually_ been a grope, either. It’d been, like, a hip grab, and with Spencer’s fucking inviting posture it totally hadn’t been Ryan’s fault. “I’m, like, _bi_ maybe,” he conceded, because Spencer was giving him his bitchy you-are-so-full-of-it look.

“Whatever, dude, your makeup sucks.”

“Shit.” Ryan flipped down the visor mirror, lips pursed at his reflection. “I look fine, asshole,” he said finally. He was actually pretty good at it, steady hand and all, even though he went a little lighter on the foundation than Stacey had. He’d gotten creative with his eyes, too, but that was okay, because it wasn’t _him_.

It was this girl, this Rhi, who wore brightly-colored skirts and gauzy blouses under tight velvet vests with these rockin’ scarves tied into knots at the throat. The fingerless leather gloves made his palms sweat a little, but they were totally worth it.

“You look a little like a carnie,” Spencer said, smirking, and Ryan flipped him off.

The whorls of color on his cheeks and around his eyes were _whimsical_, okay, and at most, _at most_, Ryan would concede to a somewhat gypsy-esque style.

“I’m sitting with you at lunch today,” Spencer said, and he said it so nonchalantly that Ryan’s interest was immediately peaked.

“Okay?”

Spencer shrugged, not offering anything further.

Ryan poked his arm. “No, really, what’s up?” he asked.

“They’re pretty cool,” Spencer said, shrugging again, and Ryan groaned, “God, Spencer, you have a thing for Vicky, right? Vicky will _eat you_.”

Vicky was awesome, Ryan was not going to deny that, but Ryan was absolutely certain she could crush guys like him and Spencer with her seriously hardcore thighs. She ran track. She played keytar in this college band, and if Vicky didn’t stomp all over Spencer’s tender heart with her kitten-heeled pumps, Ryan was pretty sure the guys in her band would.

Spencer rolled his eyes. “I’m not into Vicky, Ryan. Relax.”

“Oh, well—”

“You left me alone with _Brent_ and _Trevor_,” Spencer said, and okay. Okay, he really didn’t have to expound on that, because it was Brent and Trevor.

“Fine,” Ryan said. “Fine, just remember to keep your hands to yourself.”

*

The thing about being an okay looking girl, an _exotic_ looking girl, was that apparently guys hit on you. Since Ryan had survived Ashlee’s party without a single drunken come-on, it hadn’t even really crossed his mind until William cornered him just outside the cafeteria.

“I’m usually a boy’s boy,” William said without preamble, leaning into Ryan’s personal domain, “but you’ve got sexy angles.”

Ryan’s back was flat against the school trophy case. “That’s nice,” he said. Weirdest pick-up line ever.

William licked his lips, eyes narrowed, and Ryan felt a hand on his waist, thumb pressing into his hipbone through the filmy material of his skirt. “I very much want to kiss you,” William said, thoughtful and slow.

“Um.” Ryan tried to press further away, but he was kind of trapped, and it wasn’t like he was completely opposed to the idea. William was hot in that lanky Hobbes sort of way, like a playful cat, all lazy smiles and purrs, but with this undercurrent of energy, and Ryan suspected he was really good at getting exactly what he wanted. There was a serious problem with William getting any closer, though, oh _god_, was there a problem, and Ryan flattened his palms on William’s hips, trying to strong-arm the lower half of his body into keeping a safer, saner distance.

And then someone cleared his throat, and Ryan craned his neck around William’s hair to see Principal Mayer. He had a golf club over one shoulder and a howling blue wolf t-shirt on underneath his blazer.

“You’re smudging the glass,” he said. He arched his eyebrows and prompted, “Move along.”

William nuzzled the line of Ryan’s jaw, said, “Later,” and then he was striding away, giving Mayer a loose salute as he passed.

Mayer cocked his head at Ryan. “Ross, right?” he asked, and Ryan seized up in panic for a split-second before he remembered he’d used his own last name, his father’s family.

“Yeah,” Ryan said. He was a little shaky from being almost felt up, and he didn’t think _that_ was a girl thing. He thought that was more of a William thing, since William mainly wasn’t the type to feel up girls. He still felt a little vulnerable, though, and he was pretty sure that was the skirt talking. Skirts were scarily accessible. He pulled his messenger bag around and hugged it defensively to his chest and nodded at Mayer.

“I’ll write you a note,” Mayer said, beckoning him with a crooked finger.

It wasn’t until they were out the back door and on the pavement that Ryan asked, “Um, sir? What exactly—”

“Putt-putt tournament with Toro,” he explained in a way that wasn’t really an explanation at all, at least not one that made any sort of sense, and somehow Ryan ended up spending his entire sixth period trailing behind Mayer, carrying a bucketful of golf balls around the lower soccer field.

“You’re an odd kid, Ross,” Principal Mayer said, crouched down in the rough grass sloping up behind the goal.

Ryan thought that was rich, coming from Mayer, but whatever.

Mayer sliced through the weeds, whistling under his breath. Then swung again. And again. After five minutes, he finally said, “Fuck,” leaning onto his club and crossing one ankle over the other. “I’m screwed.”

*

For the first time in his high school career, all two and a half years of it, Spencer had detention. Ryan was waiting for him out in front of the auditorium, sitting up on the stone wall with his legs crossed in what he figured was a ladylike manner, trying not to think about how freaking big his feet looked even though Stacey had insisted the heels made them look _smaller_, and Brendon was doing handstands on the sidewalk.

He was pretty good at them. His thin t-shirt slid down his chest, pooling around his armpits, and Ryan bit his lip at all the pale skin, Jesus. Ryan had never before thought Brendon’s cheerleading tendencies were anything other than completely ridiculous, but he couldn’t deny the fact that Brendon was _good_ at it. Brendon was totally unselfconscious, bare and public, and he tucked and rolled and ended up on his feet again in a nearly seamless motion, arms out.

“Ta dah,” he said, grinning up at Ryan.

“Nice.”

“I’ve got _talent_,” Brendon said, palms spreading into jazz hands.

Ryan noticed a few pieces of gravel stuck in his skin, some tiny pockets of irritation, and without even really thinking about it he caught one of Brendon’s wrists and swiped gently at the dirt, rubbing at the marks with his thumbs.

Brendon cocked his head questioningly, but his grin didn’t slip, and when Ryan finished with the first he gestured for Brendon to give him his other hand, too.

“Are you trying out for the musical?” Brendon finally asked, curling his fingers around Ryan’s before giving them a shake and letting go.

Ryan almost laughed. “Um, no.”

“You should.” Brendon nodded. “You totally should. They’re shelling out for a Disney script this year. _Aladdin_.”

“So I guess that means you’re trying out?” he asked, fighting off an eye roll.

“Yeah, _of course_, though I’ll probably get, like, Palace Guard number five.” He made a face. “I pretty much suck.”

Ryan found that hard to believe, but on the other hand, he never remembered Brendon getting any parts before. Not that he kept up on the school productions, but the leads were usually common knowledge. Ashlee. William. Pete.

“You never know,” Ryan ended up saying, and Brendon fucking beamed at him, and Ryan’s heart did this fast beat-beat-beat thing in his throat before he swallowed it back down again. He didn’t know why, because Brendon smiled at practically everything, he was so goddamn happy all the time, but something about Brendon’s mouth made Ryan’s insides twist.

“So, um.” Brendon hopped up on the wall next to Ryan, legs swinging. “I wanted to ask, well. Your cousin doesn’t like me very much,” he said in a rush, and he looked just a little bit smaller than usual, curled over his knees, hands flat on the stone.

Ryan bit off an automatic protest, because it wasn’t like he hadn’t liked Brendon before. It was more like he hadn’t known him, hadn’t _wanted_ to know him, and Ryan wasn’t sure which was worse. “Okay,” he said finally, nodding.

Brendon slanted him a glance.

“I like you, though,” Ryan went on, and Brendon ducked his head, but Ryan could see the corners of his lips twitch up, a warm blush staining his cheeks.

*

The Tiger Den diner was open twenty-four hours a day and always served breakfast. It was nearing midnight, and Spencer ordered waffles. Spencer always ordered waffles.

Ryan usually ordered a cheese omelet, but Ryan wasn’t really Ryan, so he ordered pancakes and coffee instead.

Spencer arched a brow. “Living wild? And since when do you drink coffee?”

“Jon drinks coffee,” Ryan said.

“Jon works at Starbucks,” Spencer pointed out, and that was kind of the problem. They’d hung out there the night before, waiting for Jon’s shift to end, and Brendon apparently wasn’t allowed to have coffee – super bad experiences with caffeine - and Ryan could’ve followed his example and had a hot chocolate, except Bryar had, like, fucking _dared him_ with a look – it was amazing that Bryar ever got a girl to even talk to him, seriously, since he seemed so downright _mean_ all the time - so Ryan was building up immunity to the bitter taste or whatever. Bryar hadn’t let him have any sugar and cream in it, either.

“It’s good,” Ryan lied.

“It’ll stunt your growth.”

“Deal with it, Spencer,” Ryan said, scowling.

“Hey.” Spencer grinned, hands up. “Hey, I’m just saying. You’re different.”

“Because I’m having coffee,” Ryan said flatly.

“And pancakes. And you’re, like.” Spencer shrugged, amusement fading into something more serious, but just as affectionate. “You’re happy.”

Ryan shifted in his seat. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that, about being happier as a _girl_, although that might not have been the point.

“Trevor and Brent were sucking the life out of me,” he deadpanned, and he didn’t really mean it, but he thought it was closer to the truth than the girl-thing. Ryan couldn’t wait until he could wear boxers again.

Spencer snorted. “Maybe.”

“Oh my god,” Ashlee said, appearing almost out of nowhere – she tended to do that a lot, even though Ryan hesitated to call her _stealthy_ – sliding into the booth next to Ryan, a little takeout bag of cookies in her hands. She didn’t sound upset, though, and she let out a little laugh, gasped, “Oh my god, I was _so right_.”

“What?”

“To your left, Spencer, your _left_, no your other left.”

“You mean my right?” Spencer asked dryly.

Ashlee said, “Just look, no, don’t look, don’t look, they’ll see.”

“Ashlee.” Spencer frowned at her, and normally Spencer’s frowns were intimidating as hell, but Ashlee just waved him off.

“Do it, like, surreptitiously, okay?” She stole a sip from Ryan’s cup of coffee and grimaced. “God, are you drinking this _black_? Have you no soul?”

“Bryar said—”

“Don’t listen to Bob,” Ashlee said, dropping spoonful after spoonful of sugar into Ryan’s mug. “Bob’s the devil. And the coffee here tastes like _ass_, okay, so you’ve got to mask it with as much sweetness as possible. Did you see?”

Ryan blinked. “See what?” he asked, but his gaze drifted off to the left – Spencer’s right – and he spotted Pete. “It’s Pete.”

“Duh, it’s Pete. Look who he’s _with_.”

Pete was with Patrick. Pete was eating a sandwich, and Patrick was across from him, eating a piece of pie. “Okay.”

Ashlee sighed, and it was kind of wistful. “They’re so cute, right? They’re so in love it’s ridiculous.”

It didn’t look like they were in love to Ryan. To Ryan, it looked like they were eating. “Okay,” he said again.

“Okay. Okay, so, pizza and movies at my house tomorrow night.” She squeezed Ryan’s hand, bouncing to her feet. “I’m off to pick up Brendon at Bob’s, so I’ll catch you later.”

“She’s.” Ryan trailed off, watching as Ashlee elbowed her way past a waitress with a hasty pardon and a bright smile. “I don’t even know.”

*

“What’s with you and Bryar?”

Brendon furrowed his brow, pulled another book out of his locker and stuffed it into his bag. “Huh?”

“Like, are you dating?” Ryan asked, and it wasn’t something that had crossed his mind before, since Bryar was intimidating and scary and he’d always had a hard time imagining Bryar dating _anybody_, but hanging out with Brendon inevitably meant hanging out with Bryar, and the two of them were curiously close.

“Am I dating—Bob?” Brendon laughed. “Oh, he’d love that. Seriously, you need to ask him that, for real.”

Ryan was looking forward to being seventeen, so that would be a big fat no. “You just seem really tight,” Ryan said, and Brendon shrugged.

“We are.” He glanced up at Ryan, shouldering his backpack. “He’s my _friend_.”

Brendon seemed, despite his laugher seconds before, on the edge of taking offense, and Ryan thought maybe it wasn’t the first time he’d gotten shit for being too close to Bryar. Ryan was sorry he’d brought it up in the first place.

He cleared his throat, said, “So Ashlee’s again tonight,” and he was still a little surprised by how well he fit in there. Or how well Rhi fit in, except it didn’t seem so much that he was acting a part, really, only that he was a lot more relaxed about things than before. Like he was on vacation, damn the consequences.

Though he'd gotten trapped in a conversation about _periods_ with Ashlee and Greta the day before, and it had sucked _so hard_, and he now knew more than he ever wanted to know about cycles and cramps and he'd had to _share_ – what the fuck? - and Ryan had never been so embarrassed in his life.

Brendon grinned at him. “Spencer has detention.”

Ryan frowned. Spencer was getting an awful lot of detentions lately. Okay, well, this was only his third one, but still. Not like Spencer at all. He wouldn’t tell Ryan why, either, which was the most frustrating and suspect part, since Spencer normally told Ryan everything. “I guess we’ll meet you guys late, then,” Ryan said.

“Get his keys,” Brendon said, still grinning. “Jon can bring him over afterwards, since Jon’s got detention until the end of time for that awesome trick he pulled with his bike in the stairwell.”

Ryan arched an eyebrow. “You honestly think Spencer’ll let me drive his car?” The Jetta was a piece of shit, but Spencer was scarily protective of it.

“Why not? Or me, he’ll definitely let me—”

“Do you even have your learner’s permit?” Ryan asked.

“I have never once been let behind the wheel,” Brendon said proudly. “Bob says I’d just end up driving off a cliff or something. I think he’s exaggerating.”

Ryan wasn’t so sure.

*

“Eyes on the road, eyes on the road,” Ryan yelled, pushing at the side of Brendon’s head with one hand while holding onto the door handle in a death grip with the other.

He never should have agreed to let Brendon drive. Spencer never should have agreed to let them have the car, and god, had he been _cheerful_ about it? Had he been fucking _smiling_ when he’d handed over the keys? Because Spencer probably _knew_ it’d be the end of him, mangled in a twisted heap of metal over the side of Cobb Creek ravine, and then he wouldn’t have to hear Ryan whine about ingrown hairs and moisturizers and _Red Dawn_ ever again. Bonus, he’d be rid of Brendon Urie, too. The loss of his Jetta would be an acceptable sacrifice.

Brendon had the radio blaring, he was _singing along_, and Ryan’s entire life was flashing in front of his eyes, a multicolor swirl of indistinguishable pictures that were seriously making him want to vomit. He was all dizzy.

“Oh my god,” he said faintly, a sharp turn skidding the back tires into a fishtail. “Oh. My. God. Brendon.”

“Yeah?” Brendon flashed him a grin, like he was having _fun_, and Ryan snapped, “Pull over. Pull over _now_.”

When the car screeched to a halt on the side of the road, Ryan breathed through his nose and pressed a hand to his stomach and tried very hard not to throw up. He glared at Brendon and said, “Never again. We’re switching seats, and you are _never again_ allowed to drive in my presence, or maybe at all. Are you crazy?”

Brendon’s face fell a little. “Um.”

“I never thought I’d actually _agree_ with Bryar, but—”

“You can’t tell Bob,” Brendon said in a rush, shaking his head with wide eyes. “He’s going to let me drive when I’m ready, or when he’s ready, and he said not to drive without him or the deal’s off.”

“Whatever. Get out.” Ryan would’ve just climbed over the seats, but his skirt was kind of a problem. He got out of the car on shaky legs and made his way around to the driver’s side, leaning heavily on the hood.

“Sorry, Rhi,” Brendon said quietly, head bowed like a kicked puppy, and Ryan sighed and squeezed his arm.

“It’s okay,” Ryan said. It wasn’t, but Brendon sad was pretty much the most pathetically heartbreaking thing Ryan had ever seen. “Just—” He cut off on a breathy yelp as Brendon wrapped around him like a monkey, arms tight around his back, and for the first time Ryan was thankful Spencer had insisted on the smaller boobs, because Brendon was squishing him, and his mouth was pressed against his skin, just under his scarf, and that was. Really nice. Ryan tentatively reciprocated the hug, hands patting at his shoulders. “Hey.”

“Sorry,” Brendon said again, peeling away.

“Seriously, it’s. It’s fine, okay? Let’s just go.” He gave Brendon a little shove, and Brendon smiled at him, and it was like. Like sunshine. Like motherfucking _sunshine_, and how weird was that?

*

Vicky was maybe the funniest girl Ryan had ever met, and Spencer was laughing so hard at her story about this guy named Gabe, a squirrel, and an empty pool that Ryan suspected maybe Spencer had been lying about not having a thing for her. He was leaning into Jon, giggling with his face mashed up against Jon’s shoulder, and Jon was laughing too, and, okay, it was a funny story, but Spencer was normally more reserved than that.

“I finally found him the next morning, and the squirrel’s just staring at him and he was completely convinced they had this visceral connection,” Vicky said, curling her legs under Ashlee’s on the couch. “He started this whole squirrel cult and kept up with it for about a month, until we got Ryland, and Ryland brought him the enlightenment of the cobra or whatever the hell he calls it. We almost ended up being The Second Squirrel Temptation of the Gods.”

“I think I like that better,” Spencer said, rubbing under his nose and grinning this huge-ass grin, the one he normally reserved for Ryan and tiny fuzzy kittens.

“Me too, Spencer Smith,” Jon said. “_Squirrels_.”

“Exactly,” Spencer nodded, eyes glittering. “I’m glad we agree on this important matter.”

“Rhi, Rhi, Rhianna Ross,” Brendon said, patting Ryan’s side.

Ryan was on the floor on his back, propped on a throw pillow, and Brendon was lying sideways across him, head resting on his ribcage. Ryan moved up onto his elbows, arched a brow down at him. “Yeah?”

Brendon squirmed and fit his cheek on Ryan’s stomach, grinned. “Nothing,” he said, then pointed at Ashlee. “My turn to pick the movie.”

“As long as it’s not _Wild Hearts Can’t Be Broken_ again,” she said sternly.

“A _classic_,” Brendon stressed, waving a dismissive hand. “The horses and the _blindness_. But no. No, I want to watch _Somewhere in Time_.”

“You’re such a sap,” Vicky said. She reached out and poked the side of his head.

Brendon caught her finger, shook it. “Like it doesn’t make you cry. Like it doesn’t make you _sob_,” he taunted.

Vicky mock-scowled at him. “Watch yourself, Brendon.”

Brendon laughed. “You—”

“I do not love you,” she cut him off, but her dark eyes were filled with affection.

Brendon ducked his head, snuggling into Ryan’s shirt. “Whatever.” His hand curled over Ryan’s hipbone, and Ryan couldn’t help but think about William, about his teasing thumb, the pressure, and he hastily rolled over onto his stomach jostling Brendon and almost clipping his forehead with his arm.

“Hey,” Brendon said, disgruntled, but then Ryan felt the warm weight of his hand at the small of his back, and Brendon was wriggling up his side to share his pillow. “Movie us,” he called out.

There was a huff, and then Ashlee appeared in front of the TV. “_Somewhere in Time_,” she murmured, pressing on the DVD player. “Great.”

Ryan was aware of every single place Brendon’s body touched his and it was weird and awesome at the same time.

Weird because it was _Brendon_, this kid he never even really noticed before except when he was busy being annoying beyond all reason, and awesome because, god, he was sixteen and he had a relatively attractive boy attached to his side, breathing along his jawline and generally taking up all this _space_.

Brendon seemed mostly oblivious to it, except when Ryan shifted, curled his fingers over Brendon’s and tucked them under his cheek, slumping further down on the pillow. Brendon froze for, like, a second, and then his breath puffed out hotly over Ryan’s ear and his thumb skimmed over the side of Ryan’s nose, soft.

He said, “Rhi,” really, really low and then. And then he slipped his hand away, propping his chin up to watch the rest of the movie, and he hadn’t really moved, not really, but Ryan felt a chill slither down his spine anyway.

*

The back of the auditorium was dark but littered with students, and Ryan, Ashlee, and Jon slid into some seats behind Bryar and Vicky.

“Did we miss him?” Jon asked, propping his elbows on the top of Vicky’s seatback.

Bryar shook his head. “Should be up soon.”

“He’s really great,” Ashlee said. “Way better than Pete at singing, you know, but he sucks at remembering lines outside of the songs. Mr. Hoppus never gives him any speaking parts.”

Ryan could see Brendon just off to the side of the stage, bouncing on the balls of his feet and grinning hard at another kid, a guy with curly hair and tattoos all over his arms who only looked vaguely familiar. “Who’s that?” he asked.

Ashlee leaned in and asked, “Who?”

“Next to Brendon.” He had his hip cocked and was laughing and Brendon had this little boy smile on his mouth, cheeks pink, and Ryan clenched his hands into fists, wrapped around the strap of his bag.

“Oh, that guy, yeah.” She tapped her fingers on the chair arm. “Butcher. Doesn’t sing, but does weird interpretive dances and likes long monologues. He’s always entertaining to watch—hey, hey, here’s Brendon’s turn, just _wait_.”

Brendon bowed at the audience when he got to the center of the stage, and Mr. Hoppus shouted out from the front row, “What kind of show can we expect today, Mr. Urie?”

“One that will dazzle you, good sir. Dazzle and _amaze_.”

There was a smattering of laughter around the room, and then Mr. Hoppus said dryly, “Get on with it, please,” and Brendon opened his mouth.

It wasn’t that Ryan had thought Ashlee had been lying. Brendon sang almost constantly, little bits of songs, familiar tunes with made-up words, and Brendon was good, but there’d never been any real force behind it, no effort. Now, though. Now, Ryan thought _great_ didn’t seem to really cover Brendon’s voice adequately.

Greta was at the piano, had been at the piano for all the auditions, but with Brendon she came in at the duet, their voices swelling and twining together beautifully on _A Whole New World_. Brendon strode over to her just when she was supposed to cut him off, leaning against the upright to sing into her eyes, and by the end they were both grinning madly at each other and the entire room was echoing with laughter and applause.

“Thank you,” Mr. Hoppus said, and Ryan could hear the roll of his eyes in his tone. “And do you have anything else prepared?”

“I’d like to perform a little something from _Gone_—”

“Brendon.”

“Yes, Mr. Hoppus?” Brendon rocked back on his heels, eyes wide.

“Do you have anything prepared that _isn’t_ Scarlett O’Hara?”

Ashlee laughed, said to Ryan, “He only knows the one speech. Oh, but you should hear him when he gets to ‘as God is my witness,’ seriously, he’s _so good_ when he puts his mind to it.”

“Um.” Brendon bit his lip. “No?”

“Okay, yeah, I think we know how that goes. Take a seat and stop wasting my time.”

Brendon pouted, but slinked off to the end of the stage and dropped down onto the floor with a loud thunk. Hands in the pockets of his hoodie, he walked down the center aisle smiling when he caught sight of them.

Bryar whistled. “Good job, kid,” he said, and Brendon scrambled over Vicky to settle down in the seat next to him.

“Thanks.” He tilted his head back, and Ryan tugged on the ends of his hair until he twisted around, grinned at just him. “Hi.”

“Hi. You’ve got some nice pipes, Brendon,” Ryan said.

“I’ve been told I sing like an angel,” Brendon said grandly, and Bryar snorted.

“Right,” he said.

Brendon nodded. “Jon Walker told me so, Bob. And Jon Walker does not lie.”

*

Ryan wrapped his hand in Spencer’s and tugged him closer to his side. The place was smoky and loud and packed and it made Ryan a little nervous, not the least of his worries being the miniskirt he’d let Stacey talk him into – he kept fidgeting with the hem, pushing it down his thighs – and the awkward way he seemed to tower over everyone. He hadn’t felt that tall at school, but with Spencer and Jon and Brendon all pushed up close to him, his sedate inch heels seemed like a bad choice of footwear after all.

Plus, he’d somehow managed to avoid the whole pack-of-girls bathroom thing at school, going at odd times during classes, but apparently it was _dangerous_ to go alone in a club. It’d been sort of traumatizing for Ryan, getting dragged in by Ashlee, squeezing past girls of every shape and size, waiting in line, checking their hair and makeup in the mirror, some so sloppy drunk they could barely stand.

Ryan had washed his hands and stared into the mirror, fought off the urge to fuss with his makeup. The black swirl around his right eye was smudged by his temple, and he knew he’d only make it worse if he played with it. His face was flushed from the heat, bangs sticking to his forehead, and he felt like his entire body was dripping, which normally wouldn’t be a problem, because, hey, guys sweated. Guys were expected to get wet blotches on their backs, stomachs, but on girls it was supposedly gross, and he was kind of thankful that he’d gone with something dark up top for a change.

So it was hot and noisy and Ryan’s feet were starting to _kill_. Vicky, though. She _rocked_. The whole band was great, but Vicky was in this short black dress, hair up and eyes rimmed with something subtle that made them look huge. She had possibly the best set of breasts Ryan had ever seen.

“Awesome, huh?” Brendon shouted into Ryan’s ear, wrapping his arms around his waist from behind, hands flat on his stomach, and Ryan sucked in his breath and hoped to god Brendon didn’t notice how fucking drenched he was. He was right, though. They were awesome and catchy and who knew the keytar could be that fucking cool?

Afterwards, Vicky found them in the back and she couldn’t stop grinning, cheeks flushed.

“Yeah?” she asked, bright-eyed, and Ashlee said, “Best. Ever,” lifting up her soda in a toast.

“We’re playing _Homecoming_,” Vicky said, laughing. “Can you imagine?”

“That’s fucking insane,” Ashlee said, grabbing hold of Vicky’s arm and giving her a playful shake. “Shit, now we actually have to _go_.”

*It was possible, after careful thought – jealous stomach-clenching, check; buzz off close contact, check - that Ryan was a little bit infatuated with Brendon. Sad, but possible.

Brendon was. Okay, so Brendon was actually sort of really adorably hot. Ryan was willing to admit that agreeing to hang out in his room - it was a pretty normal room, too, as far as rooms went, except for the fact that he had a couple My Little Ponies on a wall shelf, set up around a pink and purple corral and barn combo, but that actually wasn’t so surprising, coming from Brendon - was maybe a bad idea.

Hanging out on Brendon’s bed was _definitely_ a bad move, Ryan realized, halfway through _Teen Witch_, which was possibly the least sexy movie ever, and yet Brendon was snuggled up next to him petting the inside his arm, and Ryan felt hot all over.

Brendon was humming under his breath, cheek vibrating along Ryan’s shoulder, and all Ryan wanted to do was push him back on his pillow, press his weight into him, _rub_ against him, all over, Christ, and maybe, like, bite his mouth. God. The humming was driving him _crazy_.

“Brendon.” Brendon slowly tipped his head up, eyes heavy-lidded with this sleepy hazy cast, and Ryan couldn’t help himself. “Hey,” he said, smoothing a hand onto Brendon’s thigh.

Brendon’s breath hitched and he went almost preternaturally still. “Um,” Brendon swallowed, “I don’t think—”

Ryan’s hand slid higher. “It’s okay,” he said, voice dropping down to its normal register, husky, and Brendon groaned a little, low, and it was _awesome_, this power Ryan suddenly had over him. He leaned down, mouth ghosting Brendon’s and just sort of lingering there, Brendon’s stiffness giving way to tiny shakes, fingers shifting to grip the front of Ryan’s blouse, tangling with buttons, one of them slipping past the fabric to skim Ryan’s bare stomach, and then Brendon gasped and scrambled away, hands out.

“Um. I’m _gay_,” Brendon said, eyes _huge_, confused, and Ryan almost laughed at that, until he realized, fuck, he was gay, and Ryan was supposed to be a _girl_, and that had to be all sorts of ironic.

“I didn’t mean,” Ryan floundered a little, because he couldn’t think of a single thing to say to make it right and okay, not when Brendon was so obviously freaking out. And even if Ryan wanted to reveal himself, _could_ reveal himself, well. He’d been lying to Brendon and his friends for the better part of a month, and he wasn’t sure that’d go over too well. “I’m sorry, hey, let’s just. Can we just forget about this?”

Brendon nodded, biting his lip and sort of curled into himself on the other side of the mattress. “Sure, yeah,” he said.

Ryan stayed for the rest of the movie. He figured it would’ve been even _more_ awkward if he’d left, and after a few minutes Brendon started lightly singing along with _Popular Girl_ and they both just sort of relaxed. Ryan slumped down and Brendon curled up on his side, palm propping up his head, and his other hand was just _this close_ to Ryan’s arm, fingers almost brushing his skin.

*

“Look. Look,” Ashlee said, cornering Ryan outside the library. “Your cousin’s a douchebag and all, okay, don’t get mad, he totally is, but Brendon’s been, like, in love with him since freshman year, so.” She patted Ryan’s hand.

Ryan stared at her, stunned. “What?”

“Brendon’s.” She cocked her head and pursed her lips. “Brendon _likes_ you, Rhi, and you’re, like, a prettier version of Ryan, and I think it’s confusing the hell out of him. So just be careful, okay?”

“_What_?” Ryan repeated, because Brendon was in love with him? What?

“Hey, it’s not so surprising.” Ashlee shrugged. “He’s sort of hot if you like that hobo waif-boy look. And you’re sort of quirky yourself what with the,” she waved a hand in front of Ryan’s face, “paint. Are those crows?”

Ryan blinked. Holy crap. “He’s been. Why didn’t he _say_ anything?”

Ashlee arched an eyebrow. “I don’t know how much time you’ve spent with your cousin in the past couple years, Rhi, but he’s got the emotional range of a robot.”

Ryan’s jaw tightened, because that totally wasn’t true. He just wasn’t into big public displays. He was reserved.

“And he’s got this really inappropriate obsession with prostitutes. And, okay, I heard he’s, like, originally from Vegas or whatever, but if he submits one more article on syphilis I just might scream.”

Ryan’s reservation was serving him well right about then. He kind of wanted to punch Ashlee in the head, and he _liked_ her now, he did, but there was nothing wrong with indulging in a little research on venereal diseases! “Ashlee—”

“I know, I know, he’s your cousin, you love him, whatever. We’re off topic anyhow.” She hooked her arm through his and leaned into his shoulder. “I had a point here. Brendon might, like, try something with you.”

“He’s gay,” Ryan pointed out weakly, because how much of a non-issue was that, right?

“Yeah, okay, that doesn’t define him,” Ashlee said, rolling her eyes. “He likes you, he _thinks_ he likes you. I just wanted to make sure you knew about the cousin thing, because transference and all. Someone might get hurt.”

And then Ryan kind of got what Ashlee was trying to say, that she was worried about _him_, not necessarily Brendon, and he suddenly felt like a giant shit. There was no way he could come out of this situation unscathed.

*

“Cast list is up,” Brendon said, dropping down in the seat across from Ryan, tray clattering on the table.

“And?” Jon prompted.

Brendon sighed. “Ensemble. Ashlee and William get all the good songs.”

“Yeah,” Ashlee said, coming up behind him, “but I’m stuck with _William_. He’ll spend the whole time trying to get into Pete’s diaphanous harem pants.”

There was a moment of silence. Pete in harem pants.

Brendon said, “Wow,” and Ryan said, “That’s some heady imagery there,” and they shared a small smile.

Brendon’s cheeks pinked and Ryan felt a hot flush start up from his collar, making the scarf around his neck seem too tight and stifling, and that was all wrong, wrong, wrong. He was in some serious trouble.

“Whatever.” Ashlee snagged Brendon’s unopened soda can, tapped the top with a long fingernail before popping it. “Where’s V?”

“Right here,” Vicky said. She sat down next to Jon and slid a manila folder across the table to Ashlee. “Guess what time of the month it is.”

“Yes.” Ashlee grinned, flipping open the folder. “My Ms. Ivarsson-approved Dear Ashlee letters. Seriously, you should see half the stuff I get,” she said to Ryan.

“The best was the one from Piccolo-boy about the craisins,” Brendon said. “Frank is so obvious.”

“Frank has to be obvious,” Ashlee said. She licked her finger and paged through a few loose papers. “It’s _Gerard_. Hey, listen to this one: Dear Ashlee, if I asked you to Homecoming, would you kick me in the balls? Oh my god, how did that get past Ivarsson?” She laughed, then dug a pen out of her bag and murmured as she wrote, “Maybe if you asked nicely.”

“Who’s it from?” Brendon asked, craning his neck to see the paper.

“Third rate hustler, no capitals, I’m going to say it’s Pete,” Ashlee said, tapping the end of her pen on her lower lip. “That should be interesting. I’ll add something cryptic about denial and puppies in there somewhere.”

“So you’ll say yes?” Ryan asked.

Vicky glanced over at the letter, lips quirked up. “Of course she’ll say yes.”

“I don’t think so,” Ashlee countered, flipping her hair back over her shoulder. “Apparently he’s too much of a pussy to just ask Patrick, and I’m really bad at handling being second choice, you know? Anyway, I’m all V’s that night. I’ll be with the _band_.”

“Did I even ask you?”

“It’s early yet. You were going to.” Ashlee patted Vicky’s hand. “It’s either me or Jon, and Jon has secret plans already set in motion.”

“Secret plans?” Brendon asked, straightening up in his seat and leaning forward.

Jon grinned, jabbed a finger at him. “Not for your ears, little man.”

Brendon pouted.

Ryan thought Brendon pouting was really fucking cute, goddamn it. He sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw, and Jon shot him this indescribable look. Ryan gave him a wavering smile and shrugged, curling his hands into fists on his lap.

*

Ryan honestly didn’t think there was anything scary about Jon. Jon was this awesome all-American _boy_, and he was easygoing and unassuming and generally amiable, and Ryan really liked him.

Standing with him in the school parking lot after school, though, waiting for Spencer to show up, he was staring at Ryan with an edge of something sharp curving his lips. A smile that wasn’t a smile, despite the friendliness in his eyes. It was kind of creepy.

Ryan shifted on his feet. “Um—”

“Hey, so, I’ve decided that I’ll let you keep doing your thing,” Jon said, waving a hand that encompassed Ryan’s whole body, “but you fuck with Brendon’s head and I’m gonna have to destroy your soul.”

Ryan blinked, face heating up. “Uh. I’m not sure—”

“You seem like an okay guy,” Jon said, still grinning. “And I happen to have a huge mancrush on your friend Spencer, so. Just keep that in mind, okay?”

There was a long, mostly awkward pause. “Keep in mind. That you have a mancrush on Spencer?” Ryan finally asked, because wow. He had not seen that coming.

Jon arched an eyebrow. “That I will destroy your soul,” he said slowly.

“Right.” Okay. Fuck.

*

Ryan might have been a little slow on the uptake, but once Jon had made his intentions known, it was easy to see how every little thing between him and Spencer had been some form of flirtation. The laughing, the touching, the _detentions_.

“How’s Jon?” Ryan asked, sprawled next to Spencer on his bed. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you were deliberately getting detention for him. Seriously, that’s so teenaged girl of you.”

“I wasn’t.” Spencer narrowed his eyes on him. “I got in trouble, Ryan.”

“Oh yeah? What’d you do?” Ryan asked, sure it was something inane.

Spencer muttered under his breath, and Ryan said, “Sorry, what was that?” hand cupping his ear.

“I got into a fight,” he bit out.

“A fight,” Ryan echoed. That was a surprise. Spencer, for all his bitchiness, wasn’t much of a fighter.

“With, um.” Spencer worried his lower lip. “Beckett.”

“_William_? Why would you—” He cut off, watched a blush heat up Spencer’s cheek. “Oh my god, it was over me, wasn’t it?”

“Uh,” Spencer hedged, still red, and Ryan burst out laughing.

“God, Spence, that’s.” He got up onto his knees on the mattress, took one of Spencer’s hands, and he totally meant it when he said, “That’s really fucking sweet.” It was still funny, though. He could picture both of them throwing slaps instead of fists. There’d probably been some hair-pulling, too.

“Shut up,” Spencer muttered, palming the back of his neck. Then he smiled, looked up at Ryan through his lashes. “The Jon part was just bonus.”

“Jon,” Ryan said, “apparently has a mancrush on you.”

Spencer perked up and asked, “Really?”

Ryan said, “You should ask him to Homecoming.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Oh, come on,” Ryan coaxed. “We all have to go anyway since Vicky’s band is playing. Although he did say he had plans or something.” He frowned.

Spencer scowled up at the ceiling. Ryan poked the side of his head until Spencer caught his finger, twisted it, and asked, “What about you and Brendon?”

“Ow, quit it, Spence,” Ryan groused at the burn, tugging his hand away. “Christ.” He sighed. “I think I’m gay.”

“You realize this was all a really bad idea, right?”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, but, like, I’ll just have.” Ryan closed his eyes, pressed the heel of his palm against his eye socket. He didn't like to think about how easily he was accepted as a _girl_, how easily he fit in, how he basically just had to stop being himself to make a bunch of cool new friends. He didn't like to think about how useless the entire charade actually turned out to be and how he was completely fucked. “Rhi will go home, and Ryan’ll come back from out east and it’ll be. You know. Something not so bad.”

Spencer leveraged up over him on his elbow. “You think that’ll _work_? That you’ll just keep lying to them, forever and ever?”

“Uh,” Ryan said faintly. “Maybe? God, Spence, they’ll _hate me_ otherwise, and this is all just a fucking mess.”

“Yeah.” He squeezed Ryan’s arm. “Not gonna argue that.”

*

Ryan actually had no idea how a game of football was played. It kind of just looked like a lot of grunting and tackling and running around. Football wasn’t exactly a popular sport at Ridley High, either – the team was notoriously bad - so it wasn’t like he’d ever been to a game before. The marching band didn’t even bother playing at most of them, but then the marching band was, according to Spencer, more competition oriented than anything else.

“Okay, look,” Vicky said, pointing out to the huddle of guys on the field. “It’s first and ten.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“It means it’s our first try to get ten yards. If we gain over ten yards, then we get another first and ten. If we get blocked four downs in a row without—” Vicky cut off, glaring at Ryan. “Are you even listening?”

Ryan thought maybe his eyes had started to glaze over. He blinked rapidly. “Um. You sort of lost me after first and ten. Is it important?”

Vicky sighed. She was wearing a team jersey with Ritter’s name on the back and she looked sort of awesome in it. “Never mind.”

“Why Ritter?” he asked, and Vicky rolled her eyes.

“Because he’s the _best_?”

“You just like his chiseled good looks,” Jon said, peeking out from behind his camera with a cheeky grin. He was taking shots for the paper, a notebook balanced on his lap.

Vicky rubbed her temple. “Why do I sit with you guys?”

“I don’t know,” Jon said mock-earnestly. “Maybe you should move down with the other players’ wives. You might have to fight off Nick, though. I hear he’s the jealous mistress type.”

Vicky palmed the side of her face, middle finger prominently displayed.

“Oh, that’s just uncalled for,” Jon said, obviously fighting laughter. “Uncalled for and rude.”

“What did I miss, what did I miss?” Ashlee asked, sneakers squeaking on the metal bleachers as she rushed up the stairs. Spencer was walking behind her at a much slower pace, two sodas and a bag of chips balanced in his hands.

“Nothing,” Vicky said. “No touchdowns, still our ball.”

“Cool.” Ashlee settled down on the bench in front of Ryan, leaning back into his knees. “Oh, wow, we’ve got a great view of Ritter’s ass over here. Good choice, V. Hey, there’s Brendon and Bob. Brendon!” She waved a hand in the air, and Brendon jerked his head up and smiled at them, waving back.

Ryan figured he must have seen Brendon in his cheerleading uniform before, since he’d always known Brendon was on the squad, but he couldn’t actually remember. His white pants had clear and sharp creases in them, and the sweater vest was adorably dorkish. He was enthusiastic about everything: hands cupped over his mouth and yelling at the sparse crowd while the girls bounced and did high kicks around him.

Bryar was like a hulking, disgruntled mess beside him, the cuffs of his pants rolled up, and the t-shirt under his white, blue and gold vest was black. He had his arms crossed over his chest, and he only moved when he was supposed to lift one of the girls, and he didn’t open his mouth for anything. Ryan really wasn’t sure he actually qualified to have the label cheerleader, but whatever. It was pretty amusing to watch.

Spencer sat down next to Ryan and handed him a cup, then beaned Jon in the head with the bag of chips.

“What, no drink?” Jon asked, pouting a little. There was a flirty twinkle in his eye, though, and Ryan thought better of being seated in between them. It would’ve been kind of obvious if he stood up and kicked Spencer into shoving over, though, so he pursed his lips and tried his best to ignore all the back and forth beaming going on.

“You can have some of mine,” Spencer offered.

“That’s awfully nice of you, Spencer Smith.”

Spencer grinned, tucked a lock of hair behind his ear. “I’m a nice guy.”

“You are.” Jon nodded, face solidly earnest. “You totally are.”

*

Once practice for the musical started, Ryan and Spencer got into the habit of doing their homework in the back of the auditorium. Jon and Vicky were on stage crew, and Brendon was seriously amusing to watch, draping himself all over the other actors and basically bugging the shit out of Mr. Hoppus.

There was a lot of downtime for him, too, and he ended up hovering over Ryan, curled up in the seat next to him, or playing around in the sound booth with Bryar.

“I’m daring Pete to go commando,” Brendon said, leaning on the back of Ryan’s seat, arms dangling over Ryan’s shoulders.

Ryan shifted, grabbed one of his hands and threaded their fingers together. “What?”

“Commando. In the harem pants.”

There was a moment of appreciative silence. Naked Pete in harem pants.

“He’ll take you up on that,” Ryan said finally.

“He’s _Genie_. He’ll be all blue, anyhow. I bet no one would even notice.”

“And it’s not like the whole school hasn’t already seen his dick,” Spencer said idly without lifting his head from his Trig text.

Ryan said, “Yeah,” but it wasn’t exactly an agreement. The harem pants, Ryan thought, brought out a whole new dimension of hotness.

“Yeah,” Brendon echoed, “but _harem pants_, Spencer.”

“Sorry, but the fact that it’s Pete sort of negates any appeal the harem pants have,” Spencer said, because Spencer obviously had _no taste_.

“So,” Brendon said, nuzzling down into Ryan’s neck and smiling against the crook. “So, are you giving me a ride home?”

It was a friendly Brendon nuzzle, something Ryan had seen him do countless times to Jon and Vicky, but Ryan shivered and tilted his head a little so Brendon could nose his jawline. “Up to Spencer,” Ryan said.

Brendon turned his head to look at Spencer, hair tickling Ryan’s ear. “Spencer. Spencer, you love me, you want to take me home.”

“Why can’t Jon take you home?”

“Because I like you better, Spencer Smith,” Brendon said, and he finally let go of Ryan to bounce into Spencer’s space, scrambling over an empty seat to drape himself across his lap. “I like you so much better.”

Spencer rolled his eyes. “I’m going to tell him you said that.”

Brendon hooked his hands around the back of Spencer’s neck. “It’s only the truth. Jon will forgive me.”

Ryan could tell Spencer was fighting a grin. It was sort of hard to scowl in the face of so much adorableness.

“Fine,” Spencer said. “Fine, but you’re sitting in the back.”

*

Sometimes, Ryan forgot that Jon knew.

They were painting the musical sets and Ryan was helping out, because Jon had asked, and Ryan had kind of just been staring at his History homework for twenty minutes, anyway, pretending not to watch Brendon dance around the stage. It wasn’t like he had anything better to do.

Ryan was up on his tiptoes, a mini-bucket of blue paint in his hands, thick brush over his head, when there was a strangled yelp somewhere behind him and Ryan was knocked into the still-wet palace door, bucket tipping down the front of his shirt.

“Oh, oh, Rhi, I’m.”

Ryan spun around, eyes wide on Brendon, _of course_. He had his fingers tangled together and looked genuinely apologetic, but his eyes were bright and his mouth sort of twitched at the corners and Ryan was _covered in paint_. “You.”

“You look nice in blue?” Brendon offered. A giggle slipped out.

Ryan nodded. “It’s okay,” he said, and then he took a slow step forward.

“Um.”

“Here, here.” Ryan held out his arms. “Look, you’re sorry right? So I just want to.” He stepped forward again, and Brendon looked like he knew he should run, but that it’d be more fun to stay put, so he’d only just barely turned away when Ryan grabbed for him and tackled him down.

“Wait,” Brendon said, but Ryan just said, “Hugs, Brendon, hugs,” arms tight around his wriggling body, and then Ryan gave into the urge and started tickling his sides, and Brendon was sort of hysterically laughing, trying and failing to crawl away from him, his shirt and pants covered in almost as much blue paint as Ryan’s.

“Stop!” Brendon finally yelled, breathless, and Ryan flopped back, panting, Brendon sprawled next to him on his stomach.

Ryan reached over, took hold of Brendon’s sleeve, and wiped his nose off on it.

Brendon leveraged himself away and pulled a face. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Ryan grinned.

Brendon grinned back.

They were kind of grinning stupidly at each other for a while, and then Ryan caught Jon’s arched eyebrow behind Brendon’s head and a flush started up from Ryan’s neck, but it didn’t stop his grin.

When Brendon finally gained his feet, he held out a hand for Ryan, then slipped a palm on Ryan’s waist, pulling him against his side.

It was a bad idea, it was _such_ a bad idea, Jon’s face was reminding him of that fact, but Ryan sort of cocked a hip, leaned in, pressing his head down on Brendon’s shoulder. He sighed when Brendon turned a little, breath warm on his temple.

*

It wasn’t really unexpected when Brendon asked Ryan to Homecoming, all things considered. Ryan knew that he _should_ say no, that would be the smart move, but Brendon was just gazing up at him with these big dark eyes, fingers twisting in the hem of his t-shirt, and Ryan _wanted_ to say yes.

It was possible that Ashlee was completely right about Ryan being a massive douchebag.

“I think maybe I’m, you know, _you_ sexual,” Brendon said in this fucking adorably confused voice and Ryan felt really bad for twisting Brendon up inside. Not enough to keep from kissing him, though, from clutching Brendon’s shoulders and shoving him up against the door and biting his lower lip. Ryan loved Brendon’s lower lip. He wanted to live there for a while.

“Wow,” Brendon said when Ryan pulled away. “Uh.”

“Yeah.” Ryan was really, really screwed. “Yes.”

*

“Why am I here with you?” Spencer asked. He had three boxes of shoes stacked in his arms, though, so Ryan thought the complaining was mostly for show.

“Because I have to find a fucking pretty dress,” Ryan said, wandering through the dresses displayed in Macy’s juniors department. There were a lot of sparkles and tacky appliqués. “And there’s no way I’m going shopping with Ashlee.”

Stacey was following them, piling dress after dress into her arms, anything that caught her eye, it seemed, and Ryan was dreading trying them all on. They all looked really bright.

“Black?” he asked hopefully, and Stacey shook her head.

“You’ve already established a precedent,” she said, shrugging. “Black makes you look emo, anyhow. Seriously, red is the way to go.” She cocked her head. “Or purple.”

“Please, no purple,” Spencer said with a pained grimace.

“Brendon likes purple,” Ryan said, fingering the slippery folds of a tea-length halter number. It was pleated, empire waist, and very, very cute.

“Seriously, Ryan. Seriously.”

Ryan blinked at Spencer. “What?”

“You are _not a girl_,” he stressed. “I think this whole experience has warped your brain.”

“I like this one,” Ryan said, ignoring Spencer’s disgruntlement. He was just upset about Jon still, Ryan thought. Which was stupid. Compared to Ryan, Spencer had it easy; he was just being stubborn.

“Perfect,” Stacey said, thumbing through the sizes and adding a couple different ones to the pile. “Let’s get you into a fitting room.”

*

The thing about William, Ryan realized, was that he didn’t give up so easily, and it was hard to get him to take no for an answer, particularly when he had no concept of the _why_ behind the negative.

He stared down at Ryan blankly. “That makes no sense,” he said.

“It does,” Ryan insisted. “It does because I don’t actually want to go out with you.”

William narrowed his eyes. “Yet you’re clearly attracted to me.”

He wasn’t exactly sure where William got that idea, but William was apparently delusional, so Ryan wasn’t going to press that point. “Look, William, that doesn’t. One has nothing to do with the other,” Ryan tried again. William was kind of pushy. He had fast hands, too, and Ryan was absolutely certain he didn’t want to go to Homecoming with him. For starters, it’d be really hard to juggle two dates, even though William didn’t seem to feel that the fact that Ryan’d already said yes to Brendon was much of a deterrent.

“It could, though,” William said, mouth curving up slyly at the corners, and he slinked a little closer, hooking a finger over the top of Ryan’s belt and tugging.

“Will—” Ryan cut off with an embarrassing squeak as Williams other hand _grabbed_ his _ass_.

“Hello,” William breathed across Ryan’s lips, and then he shifted his hips up against Ryan’s, bone to bone, and confusion clouded William’s eyes for a split second before he grinned even wider and purred, “Hel_lo_.”

“Shit,” Ryan hissed.

“Ross, you naughty boy.”

Ryan gripped the front of his shirt. “You can’t say anything.”

“Hmm, I don’t know.” William leaned in close and Ryan’s eyes crossed a little. “I think I deserve something nice for keeping my mouth shut.”

“I’m. I’m not going to.” Ryan didn’t know exactly what William was suggesting, but he really wasn’t interested.

“Relax, Ross,” William said. He waggled his eyebrows. “I might be satisfied with a kiss.”

“Well, this is awkward.” Mr. Schechter’s face popped up next to them, so close Ryan reeled back with a startled, “Oh.”

“Unsurprising, but awkward,” Schechter went on. “William, want to get your ass into my classroom? I’d hate to start the Revolutionary War without you.”

William grinned. “I’m the root of all conflict.”

“Where there’s a will,” Schechter muttered, rolling his eyes. “Move it, before I start handing out detentions.”

William gave Ryan a totally not reassuring look. A leer. “No problem, Mr. S. We’ll just put this. _Conversation_ on hold ‘til later.”

Ryan groaned. “We _won’t_.”

“Ah-ah, Ross.” William flicked the end of his nose. “It looks like I’ve got the upper hand here.”

“Actually, I’ve got the upper hand,” Schechter said, tugging on the sleeves of his jacket. “I’m even decked out in authoritative tweed.” He clapped his hands together once. “Get where you’re going. Now.”

Ryan was pretty sure he’d never been so embarrassed in his life, but at least Mr. Schechter didn’t know what _William_ knew and he hoped to god William could keep his mouth shut. He took a shaky breath and decided to spend all off sixth period hiding in the second floor bathroom.

*

The Homecoming game was just like any other football game, except there were more people in the stands, and most of them were drunk. Ryan kind of wished he was drunk, too.

It was early October, but it was warm out: California warm. The sun was golden and low in the sky, and even though they were losing spectacularly, there was a hum of excitement in the air. Jon put two fingers in his mouth and wolf-whistled when their band took the field at halftime. Ryan figured it was for Spencer.

Then he leaned over and whispered in Ryan’s ear, “I’m stealing Spencer for the evening.”

Ryan looked at him, head tilted. “And?”

“Just saying.” Jon shrugged.

“Does Spencer know?”

Jon grinned a secret little grin that made him look even more boyish than usual. “Maybe not.”

Ryan opened his mouth to threaten him in the name of best friends, but then promptly snapped it shut again. Jon had him by the balls, so to speak, and he really didn’t think Jon would hurt Spencer, anyhow. Jon was one of the most genuine guys Ryan knew. “Have fun,” he said instead, knocking Jon with his shoulder.

“I’m trusting you with Brendon,” Jon said. “I think you’re probably gonna want to tell him the truth.”

“Really, I—”

Jon flicked an eyebrow up.

“Uh. Okay.” Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“I don’t know what you were thinking, Ryan,” Jon said softly, “but you need to get your shit together.”

Ryan sighed. He wasn’t sure what he’d been thinking either, not anymore. He’d kind of forgotten what the whole thing had been about, and that was the really fucking horrible part. The entire ruling staff of the _Ridley Tiger Times_ was pretty awesome, and maybe if he’d been a little more open-minded before he wouldn’t have had to lie to them all in order to find that out.

“I know,” Ryan said.

Jon nodded and said pointedly, “Brendon’s not gonna want to hear about this from someone else, which is the main reason I haven’t already told him.”

“Right.” Fantastic. His life was _fantastic_.

Jon was apparently reserving judgment, but Ryan was pretty sure Vicky and Ashlee would be pissed as hell at him. There was a chance Bryar would actually honest-to-god kill him with his bare hands, and Brendon.

Brendon was going to be hurt, Ryan knew that. And he _knew_ Jon was right; it had to come from him, because otherwise there was no chance in hell that Brendon would ever forgive him.

*

When Ryan got home after the game – which they’d lost by an embarrassing landslide, though that didn’t seem to dampen anyone’s spirits – he dug out his latest rejected article, the one that had sparked this whole mess. It was filled with glaring red marks and thick capitals. He’d never gotten past the first page before, past the giant, emphasized, “What’s the point?”

But right then he sat down at his desk and really _read it_. Read what he’d written and read every single one of Ms. Ivarsson’s comments, and Ryan realized something that made his stomach cramp up and his hands sweaty. “What’s the point?” had apparently translated into, “How does this relate?” and, “Remember your audience,” and Ryan thought maybe, yeah, there’s nothing wrong with a little intelligent research, but it had to tie in with today, with the now, and kids had to fucking know what the hell he was trying to say. It was a simple concept, apparently, and Ryan was a fucking moron.

“Spencer, I’m a fucking moron,” Ryan said when Spencer picked up his phone.

“That’s nice. Hey, do you—”

“Hi, Ryan,” Jon said into Spencer’s cell. “Spencer’ll talk to you later, okay?”

“Um.” In the background, Ryan could hear Spencer say, “I’m being _kidnapped_,” but he sounded pretty happy about it, so Ryan just said, “Yeah, okay, sure.”

He had to get ready for the dance, anyway.

*

Ryan thought the easiest way to break the news to Brendon would probably be to open up his front door wearing a suit when Brendon and Bryar – and Bryar’s date, the lovely, sweet Greta, which was a little weird - picked him up for the dance, but Ryan kind of wanted to wear his dress. He’d spent a lot of money on it, and he couldn’t return it, and it was really pretty.

He painted his face to match the color, a purple fade at his right temple, navy shading his eyelid, a scattering of dark stars over his cheek with faint golden undertones. He blew his hair dry so it curled softly under, slanting over half his face, and he picked out a longer scarf, a soft gray, tying it at the front of his throat so the ends hung down between his practically nonexistent cleavage.

When the doorbell rang, Ryan was never so glad in his life that his father was a workaholic. Explaining the date would have been hard enough without the fancy purple dress and strappy silver sandals thrown into the mix.

“Brendon, hi,” Ryan said after jerking the door open. He’d rushed down the steps, so he was a little breathless, leaning into the door handle, and it had nothing to do with Brendon’s suit, Brendon all dressed up, because that was actually pretty hilarious. He had a ruffled shirt on and a short, tight waistcoat with a watch fob pinned to his chest, chain looping into a small pocket. He had a velvety bowler hat tipped at a rakish angle over his right eye, and his mouth was stretched in this huge, delighted smile.

“Wow,” Ryan said.

Brendon nodded. “I know. I look awesome.”

“You’re ready for a friendly hand of whist at White’s,” Ryan said.

“You look nice, too,” Brendon said, fingering the ends of Ryan’s scarf, and there.

Right there and then was a perfect opportunity to say, _Brendon, I’m a guy! I’ve got boy parts and everything! _

Instead, Ryan asked, “What, no corsage?” and hauled ass out the door. There’d be plenty of time to tell him later, maybe after some spiked punch.

*

“Well, if it isn’t my pretty princess,” William said, shackling Ryan’s wrist by the punch table. “Have you saved me a dance?”

Ryan’s jaw clenched. “No.”

“You owe me, Ross,” William said. His look would have been smarmy if William wasn’t so feminine himself: willowy, with the soft hair to match. He just ended up looking sort of gamine and coquettish.

And then Pete strolled up and said, “Hey, Ross. Heard you were packing a little something extra,” grabbing himself in the crotch and grinning with all of his teeth.

“Son of a bitch,” Ryan cursed, then jabbed a finger at William. “I don’t owe you anything, you queeny gossip whore.”

William possibly did not look as affronted as he should have. He pouted. “He tortured it out of me.”

“I said hi,” Pete countered, clearly amused. “Bill’s easy like that.”

Ryan groaned and would have buried his face in his hands if he wasn’t so conscious of smearing his makeup. “Who else knows?”

“Patrick, but Patrick’s like a little pink clam,” Pete said, “all soft and secret on the inside.”

Ryan blinked at him. Pete just grinned wider.

“Oh, oh, and Travis,” William added, snapping his fingers.

“And Travis,” Pete repeated. “And Andy and Joe, but that’s only because they overheard me telling Dirty.”

“Fuck. _Fuck_ you guys, oh my god.” Ryan’s life was _over_. God, everyone fucking _knew_, and forget earlier, forget _William_, seriously, nothing was ever going to top the mortification of that moment, because Ryan was in a dress with heels and _pantyhose_ at Homecoming, and the entire fucking gymnasium was now aware that he was a cross-dressing _freak_. “I have to find Brendon,” he said, and stalked off.

Brendon was right where Ryan had left him, talking with Ashlee at the right corner of the stage, bopping in place to the music, and he didn’t seem upset, so Ryan let out a slow breath, hoping against hope that he hadn’t heard what was probably already all over the fucking room by now.

“Brendon,” Ryan said, coming up behind him. “Brendon, I need to—”

“Hey.” Brendon beamed up at him.

“Brendon, there’s something I have to.” He flicked a glance at Ashlee, and it was hard to judge her expression. Her mouth was smiling, but something about her eyes made Ryan’s own widen in response. Ryan thought maybe she was dangerously close to slapping him. He looked back at Brendon and took a deep breath. “Can we talk? Alone?”

Brendon cocked his head, smile unwavering. “Sure.”

Ashlee grabbed hold of Ryan’s arm before he could walk away, fingernails biting into his skin as she tugged him close. She hissed into his ear, “You better not fuck this up, Ross,” and Ryan swallowed hard, because, seriously, he’d _already_ fucked everything up. He could only try to minimize the damage.

*

“What’s up?” Brendon asked, leaning back against the concrete hallway wall just outside the gym.

“There’s something you should know. About me.”

Brendon nodded, still watching Ryan curiously. “Okay.”

Ryan took a deep breath, debated gripping Brendon’s arm, holding him still so he couldn’t just walk away, then decided against it, decided that trapping him there would just make it all worse. “I like you, Brendon, I really honestly do,” Ryan said, and he shook his head at the smile blooming across Brendon’s face. “Do you believe me?”

“Sure. Yeah, I believe you,” Brendon said, and Ryan’s heart was pounding in his throat and Brendon _kept on smiling_.

And then the door to the gymnasium burst open and Brent was there, and he had his I’m-kind-of-pissed face on, and he said, “Hey, I can’t _believe_ you. Why didn’t you. Why didn’t you _tell_ me, you asshole?”

“Uh—”

“I mean,” Brent waved a hand, “it’s not like I haven’t known you just as long as Spencer, what the fuck? I had to find out from _Siska_.”

“Brent, could you just give me a minute here?” Ryan asked desperately.

Brent rolled his eyes. “Sure, whatever, Ryan. _Asshole_,” he stressed, then pushed his way past and disappeared into the men’s room.

“Shit,” Ryan said softly, head drooping, and Brendon’s eyes were fucking huge when he glanced at him again, huge and confused and just a little bit watery around the edges. “Bren—”

“What.” Brendon took a step backwards, palms pressed together in front of his chest. “_Ryan_?”

Ryan opened and closed his mouth, searching for words that would make all of this better, but there really weren’t any. Finally, he said, “I can’t really explain,” and Brendon looked like he was going to bolt, so Ryan did what he hadn’t wanted to do and grabbed his arm, pulled him close. “Brendon, please, I was going to tell you.”

“Okay,” Brendon said, and he was so jittery, feet shifting like the only thing in the world he wanted was to get out of there even though he didn’t try to pull away.

Ryan could already tell it wasn’t going to work, that anything he said wouldn’t make any bit of difference. So he tugged Brendon closer, reached out and gripped Brendon’s hip with his other hand, reeling him in until they were touching all along the front of their bodies.

Brendon’s breathing was harsh, and Ryan didn’t know if it was because of anger or hurt, or because Ryan was sliding him into a hug, lips pressed against Brendon’s temple.

“You’re,” Ryan started, then stopped, because he _didn’t_ have any explanations, not any that would matter, and Brendon was either going to forgive him or he wasn’t. “I’m sorry.”

Brendon twitched against him, and then his hands came up and he pushed at Ryan’s hips, a steady pressure until Ryan dropped his arms and let him go. Brendon wouldn’t look at Ryan; he just rubbed a hand over his face, head tilted away.

“Bren—”

“I’m.” Brendon’s voice was thick. “I’m going to go home now,” he said, and there wasn’t anything, really, that Ryan could do to stop him.

*

On Monday morning, Ryan was halfway into a skirt before he realized he was no longer a girl.

And then he spent nearly twenty minutes trying to figure out what to wear, because his old jeans and t-shirts didn’t feel right anymore, so he ended up in his pinstripe dress pants and a fitted vest, rosettes pinned at the collar of his shirt. His face felt kind of naked without makeup, so he smoked his eyes, shaded his lids and temples with a hint of pink fading to orange, and then went outside to sit on the curb and wait for Spencer.

The entire weekend had pretty much sucked. His cell rang almost constantly, but none of the calls had been from Brendon. One of them had been from Bryar, though, and had consisted of a lot of menacing heavy breathing. Ryan was dreading school, but Spencer would kick his ass if he didn’t show.

When Spencer pulled up, Ryan just slid wordlessly into the car, resigned, and Spencer said, “You look like a riverboat gambler.”

“Thanks,” Ryan said dryly.

“Hey, it’s a step up from carnie, right?”

Ryan sighed, slumped down in his seat, closing his eyes. “Everything’s a mess.”

Spencer didn’t say anything to that, and after a few moments of silence, Ryan popped open his eyes and glanced over at him. Spencer was smiling to himself. Spencer was smiling _giddily_.

“You.”

“What?” Spencer flicked him a look before turning his attention back to the road.

“Oh my god,” Ryan said, sitting up straight. “Oh my god, you had sex with Jon.”

Spencer’s arm jerked and the car swerved onto the shoulder and back again. The truck behind them honked. “Uh,” Spencer hedged.

“You did. You _did_,” Ryan repeated. He hit Spencer in the shoulder with his fist. “You did and you didn’t fucking _call me_, Spence.”

“But I didn’t,” Spencer protested. “There was, uh, no actual sex, seriously, Ryan.”

“There was something, though,” Ryan said petulantly. “There was making out, making out with _Jon_, and you didn’t tell me.”

“Fuck, you’re such a girl,” Spencer said, scowling.

Ryan let out a noisy breath and his fingers dug into his thighs.

“Sorry,” Spencer said softly.

“I don’t want to go to school.”

“It’ll be fine,” Spencer insisted.

Ryan snorted. “Right.”

“Jon’s not.” Spencer paused, then said, “You didn’t do this to be mean, Ryan. Jon knows that, and he knows I’d choose you over him if it came down to it, okay? So I don’t think it’ll be as bad as you think it’ll be.”

Ryan chewed on his lip. “You’ll sit with me at lunch?”

“Yeah, I’ll sit with you at lunch.”

*

The weirdest part of his day was the hour he spent in Principal Mayer’s office, because Principal Mayer was putting together a Habitrail for his hamster, and he needed Ryan’s “little fingers” to help with all the smaller tubes.

“I didn’t know you had a hamster,” Ryan said for lack of anything else to say, since Mayer hadn’t seemed all that surprised to find him waiting outside his office that morning.

Mayer was down on his knees, staring quizzically at two pieces of blue plastic pipes. “I confiscated him from Gerard,” he said absently, and Ryan thought that was kind of mean, to take a guy’s pet, but whatever.

“Okay.”

“Okay, these two don’t fit anywhere,” Mayer said, tossing the tubes aside and almost hitting the abandoned house of cards propped in the corner, the three walls Ryan had helped gum-together the only part of it still semi-upright, surrounded by the wreckage of collapsed cards. He swiped his hands on his khakis and stood up, then cocked his head at Ryan. “You want to keep the same schedule?” he asked.

Ryan blinked. “Sure?”

“Great. I’ll write you a note for second period.”

*

The oddly relieving part of Ryan’s day was that no one seemed to treat him any differently. They didn’t smirk at him, didn’t laugh – well, except for William and Pete, and they weren’t mean about it, so it didn’t really faze him. But his classes were the _same_, and he didn’t have any with Vicky or Brendon or Jon until after lunch, but everyone _else_, Brent even, just called him Ry and gave him the same easy smiles and the teachers didn’t even comment on his sudden lack of skirt and heels.

He met Spencer at his locker right before lunch and said as much to him, fingers twisting on the strap of his bag.

Spencer gave him a quick grin. “That’s because you’re not acting any differently.”

“Huh?”

“Okay.” Ashlee popped up behind Spencer and Ryan didn’t squeal, but it was a close thing. Seriously, she had some sort of ninja training deep down in her bones. “Nice outfit,” she said to Ryan. “It’s a step up from vagrant chic, at least. I like your pants.”

Ryan just stared at her.

Ashlee rolled her eyes. “Gee, thanks, Ash, that’s awfully nice of you to say, considering I’ve been pretending to be a girl for the past month and a half. You’re very welcome, Ryan, I just happen to be that awesome.”

Ryan blinked. “Hi, Ashlee.”

“Oh, boy.” Ashlee hooked her arm through his. “Lunch is gonna be _fun_.”

Ryan swallowed nervously. “Aren’t you—”

“Angry? Sure, I’m still kind of furious, but I’ve grown attached to you, Ryan Ross, so I’m willing to give you a second chance.” She frowned. “Can’t say as much for Bob, though. You might want to be careful around him.”

Ryan winced. “He’s going to kill me, isn’t he?”

Ashlee patted his arm and admonished, “Don’t go walking outside alone after dark.”

*

Vicky was already seated when the three of them trooped into the lunchroom. She arched an eyebrow at Ryan, but didn’t say anything other than a careful, “Hello.”

Ryan gave her a wan smile in response. “I’m—”

“Sorry, right, I get that. Nice pants, by the way.” She grinned at him, and Ryan remembered how totally cool Vicky was, and how he was really lucky she was so cool, because she was almost as dangerous as Bryar, and always wore really pointy shoes.

Ryan blew out a sort of relieved breath, shaking his hair out of his eyes. His fingers flexed on the edge of the table. He glanced between Vicky and Ashlee, then said, “I think I’m kind of in love with Brendon,” and it wasn’t something he’d ordinarily just volunteer like that, except he felt like he owed them, and that was the most he could give right then.

Vicky’s eyes widened, and then Ryan felt hands, large hands, clamp down on his shoulders, and his own widened, too. Holy crap.

Ryan froze and the hands on his shoulders _squeezed_, and Ryan held his breath, waiting, waiting for. He didn’t know. His neck to snap or something. But the hands just kept squeezing, and it would have been sort of painful if Ryan hadn’t already been desensitized by fear.

And then the hands were gone, and Vicky’s lips were twitching, and Ashlee said, “Oh my god,” and giggled a little.

“That was Bryar, wasn’t it?” Ryan asked when he could get his voice to work again.

“You are so lucky he heard you,” Ashlee said.

“Heard what?” Jon asked, dropping down next to Spencer, leaning into his space. “Why, hello, Spencer Smith.”

“Hi, Jon Walker,” Spencer said with a big grin.

“You two are such dorks, oh my god, seriously,” Ashlee said, but she was smiling. “And Bob just heard Ryan here declare his love for Brendon. It was kind of hilarious.”

“Thanks,” Ryan muttered, scooting down lower in his seat. He picked at his lunch, but he wasn’t very hungry. He’d had Spencer pack an extra Capri Sun for Brendon, just in case he was actually still talking to him, but Brendon hadn’t shown up yet. Finally, he cleared his throat and asked, “So, um, where’s Brendon?”

Jon gave him a sympathetic look, sad eyes and a half-quirked mouth. “He’s eating with the Butcher and Siska in the auditorium. Said he wanted to get some extra practice in.”

Ryan nodded. “Right, okay.” Extra practice. With the Butcher. He shoved his chair back and got to his feet, collecting what was left of his lunch. “Hey, I need to talk to Mr. Nolan before class, so. I’ll meet you there?”

Jon nodded. “Sure.”

*

It was probably a bad idea. It was probably one of the worst ideas he’d ever had, with the exception of the whole let’s-pretend-I’m-a-girl thing.

Brendon was sitting on the edge of the stage, legs swinging, and the Butcher was down in the orchestra pit with Siska. There was some sort of mock sword fight going on with cardboard tubes. Brendon was laughing.

The door swung shut behind Ryan louder than he’d thought it would, the metal clang and catch echoing around the acoustic room, and Brendon’s head jerked up, cutting his laughter off short.

They stared at each other for a few minutes, and Ryan tried to get his feet to move, to walk down that center aisle, but he felt stuck. Afraid, maybe, of what Brendon would or wouldn’t say.

Finally, Brendon slipped off the end of the stage and walked towards him, hands tucked in his hoodie. When he got closer, Ryan could see the fatigue rimming his eyes, the way his hair was sort of limp over his forehead. Ryan wanted to push it off his face, wanted to curl his hand around the back of his neck and tug him closer.

Instead, he stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Hi, Brendon,” he finally said.

“What are you doing here?” Brendon asked, and his tone was off, not angry or hurt, but sort of inflectionless, which was much, much worse.

“I—”

“I mean, you never paid any attention to me before, right? So what was all this, exactly? What. What were you thinking?” Brendon went on, still in that scary dead voice that caused a knot to form in Ryan’s chest, to flutter his heart with hurt.

“It wasn’t because of you,” Ryan said. “I was. I was doing an experiment, for the paper, you know?” He didn’t know how he could explain it without sounding like a total ass, but, really, that didn’t matter very much. “It had nothing to do with you, nothing at all—”

“That makes me feel better.”

“_No_,” Ryan bit out, slightly desperate. “That’s not. I meant that there wasn’t any _you_ before, okay? And then you were there, and you were kind of a dork and you were adorable, and I meant everything I ever said to you.”

Brendon had his head bent. He nodded a little, not looking up. “Okay.”

“Okay, you—”

“This isn’t something you can just fix, you know.” Brendon _did_ look up then, a rueful little smile on his face.

Ryan swallowed, felt an embarrassing burn behind his eyes. “Okay.”

*

Ryan went back to eating with Brent and Trevor at lunch, since Brendon had made his point, and he didn’t want to keep him from his friends, didn’t want him to spend his lunch period in the auditorium just because Ryan was sitting at his table. Spencer reluctantly went with him. Jon lasted two whole days before he decided to eat with them, too.

Ryan would think it was cute if he wasn’t busy being a complete emotional wreck.

“So what I don’t get,” Jon said one day, “is why you dressed up like a girl in the first place.”

Ryan scowled, and Spencer cheerfully offered, “He was pissed off at Ms. Ivarsson and wanted to prove that everyone on the school paper were elitist bitches who hated men.”

Jon blinked. Then he burst out laughing. Like, loud embarrassing guffaw laughing. “Dude,” he finally gasped out. “Dude, that’s so.” He shook his head.

Ryan scowled deeper. “It was a valid assumption at the time.”

“Probably not,” Jon said, laughter petering out. “You couldn’t prove anything, anyway. Did you even submit an article?”

“No. Not as Rhi,” Spencer answered for him, still smiling, because he was an _asshole_, seriously.

Ryan said, “I got a story out of it, though. Ms. Ivarsson’s interested in my experiences as a girl.”

“So essentially,” Spencer said, “it’s going to be about pretty dresses and makeup and boys.”

Ryan really wanted to punch Spencer. “Who’s the misogynist here?”

“You’re a misogynist?” Jon asked.

“He—”

“He might have been, but then he started hanging out with me and V, and we are so cool he couldn’t help but love us, right Ross?” Ashlee sat her tray down next to Brent. “Shove over, Brent. God, lunch is so boring without you guys. I’m making a statement.”

“A statement,” Ryan echoed.

She leaned forward. “Brendon’s a miserable little puppy and you _took Jon_, how could you?”

“I thought it’d be better—”

“Oh, honey, no. Don’t think. You can’t change back now. You’re a _real boy_.”

Spencer buried his face in Jon’s shoulder and laughed, and Jon cupped the back of his neck with a hand, pulled him closer with a secretly amused grin of his own.

“Glad you find that funny, Spencer,” Ryan muttered.

“You can’t change back, is what I’m saying,” Ashlee repeated. “If you start going back to old Ryan, if you go back to your bitter little pre ‘Ashlee is super cool’ world, then Brendon’ll think he’s right.”

Ryan stared at her. “Brendon’s—not right?”

“Wow, you’re dense.” Ashlee tossed her hair over her shoulder. “Brendon wants to believe you, but he doesn’t want to get hurt. I need you to make an effort here.”

“So. We move back to eating lunch with you,” Ryan said, and his stomach was fluttering a little, almost nauseous at the prospect.

“It’s a start, yeah.” She nodded, face solemn. “We really miss Jon.”

Jon shrugged. “I’m sort of awesome.”

*

The next day, when Ryan, Spencer and Jon sat down at their old table with Vicky and Ashlee and Brendon, Vicky said, “Oh, thank god,” and Ryan could have sworn he saw Brendon smile. Just a tiny little twitch of his lips, which wasn’t much of a smile for Brendon, but it was _there_, he was sure of it.

In English right after, while Mr. Nolan was droning on about Hamlet’s moles or something, Ryan slipped Jon a note across the aisle: _is he still mad? _

Jon made a face, scribbled something on the paper, crumpled it up, and then tossed it back at him. It was a stick figure of a guy with some sort of spear next to an enormous hippo. Or it could have been a really fat dog.

Ryan glanced up at him, brow furrowed, and mouthed, ‘What?’

Jon just smiled. He reached over and tugged the paper back, then scribbled some more and held it up for Ryan to see. He’d added little floating hearts all over the place. Ryan had no idea what he was trying to say.

Brendon, on the other side of Jon, sent them a quizzical brow arch. Jon flashed him the picture he drew and Brendon ducked his head and blushed, which made _no sense_, seriously, but whatever the point was, it seemed that maybe Brendon wasn’t quite as upset with Ryan as he was before. Cool.

*

“So has he said anything about me?” Ryan asked when Ashlee picked up.

“Hang on.” Ashlee put him on hold, and then she was back with, “Okay, I’ve got V.”

“What?”

“Hi, Ross,” Vicky said.

Ryan pulled back and stared at his cell. “You’ve got me on three-way?”

“Girl talk,” Ashlee lilted. “Seriously, we’re gonna gossip here and you can’t do that with only two people. Now. Brendon.”

“Oh my god, he’s so cute,” Vicky said, and Ryan scowled.

“You’re not funny.”

“Are you kidding? She’s hilarious. Ryan, you have no sense of humor. I was totally right about your robot past.”

“Ashlee—”

“No, no, you’re right, we’re talking about Brendon, so. He’s super adorable, right?”

“I hate you guys,” Ryan said, but he didn’t hang up. He didn’t know why he’d called Ashlee in the first place, except Jon was either being predictably mum about the whole situation or he was drawing confusing doodles about bunnies, bears, and hippos, and Spencer’s eyes glazed over every time he brought Brendon up, and there was no one else he could really talk to about him.

“It’s been three weeks,” Vicky said.

Ryan waited for something more, but when neither of the girls said anything, he asked, “Yeah?”

“God, Ryan, I said you had to make an effort, didn’t I? Effort doesn’t mean sitting around on your bony ass moping about Brendon like the giant girl you so obviously are,” Ashlee said.

“These are your reckless teen years,” Vicky added. “You need to do something really stupid and endearing. You need to make a fool of yourself for him, make some sort of embarrassing grand gesture.”

Ryan heard faint snapping, and then Ashlee said, “Your article for the _Times_. You totally need to put yourself out there in that. What you learned as a girl, besides the fact that jersey is a totally awesome fabric.”

“I don’t think,” Ryan said slowly, tapping his fingers against his desk, head tilted back to stare up at his ceiling, “what I feel for Brendon has anything to do with being a girl.”

“Not a girl, then,” Vicky said, a shrug in her voice. “As somebody _not you_.”

*

Ryan was willing to admit, post-Rhianna, that he used to be kind of a snob. He hadn’t been all that popular, true, but he’d thought of himself as a superior nonconformist, which in retrospect was sort of laughable, since he’d worn the same tight jeans as every other self-proclaimed nonconformist in school, the same too small t-shirt and a cap that made him look, according to Ashlee, like a starving cockney pickpocket.

Brendon liked bright colors and ponies and had an extensive belt buckle collection. Ryan appreciated that more now that he was, as Spencer pointed out, past his enchantment with riverboat glamour and into some sort of flamboyant cowboy phase. He really liked the neckerchiefs and the way his wranglers made his legs look more substantial. The boots were kind of uncomfortable, but Ashlee was always saying they had to suffer for fashion, so he manned up and ignored the blisters on his toes.

So he wrote an article about being not him. About starting over, about being more open-minded and unprejudiced and sort of rebellious, because somewhere along the line, after his mom left, when his dad had stopped paying attention to him and started working insanely long hours at the office, he’d forgotten how to be stupid and reckless and _fun_.

And he bit the metaphorical bullet and wrote how he’d fallen head over heels for Brendon Urie, who was the most unaffected boy he knew, who let Jon Walker draw bunnies and hearts all over his arms in English, who had somehow, amazingly, charmed Bob Bryar into joining the cheerleading squad with him, who sang like nobody was watching, and smiled like the whole world’s happiness depended on his mood. It was a little over the top, Ryan knew that, but Vicky told him to make a fool out of himself, and he figured that was the most expedient and widespread way.

After handing the article in, he waited while Ms. Ivarsson looked it over, and when she finished her initial scan, she sent him an arch look under a pointed, thin brow.

“Very interesting, Mr. Ross,” she said, tapping her sharp nails on the paper. They were cherry red and sort of mesmerizing.

Ryan wasn’t sure if ‘interesting’ was good or bad.

She folded her hands together and leaned forward. “You’re a good writer, Ryan. Maybe not the best journalist, but your work is relatively solid. You keep pushing articles like this, though,” she tapped it again, “and we might be able to find you a place on staff.”

Ryan tightened his grip on his bag, resisting the urge to shout _Yes! _ and nodded. “Thanks,” he said.

“Are you absolutely certain you want this printed?”

He almost said, _You mean the part where I out myself and tell the entire school I’m in love with a spaz whose favorite color is purple? _ but he didn’t. He just nodded again, and tried not to think about the fallout.

*

Ryan wasn’t expecting Brendon to show up at his front door. He wasn’t expecting to hear from Brendon at all, really; not yet, at least, since the paper wasn’t due to be printed for another week. But his doorbell rang and Ryan opened his door to find Brendon on his stoop with Bryar down by the curb, leaning up against his black Firebird, smoking and looking generally menacing.

Ryan shifted awkwardly on his feet. “Uh—”

He cut off, staggering backwards as Brendon practically tackled him, and he had a split-second of ‘oh my god, he’s going to bite me’ before Brendon had his lips on his, fingers in his hair, head tilted and tongue turning some truly filthy little tricks to get Ryan’s mouth to open.

Ryan’s hands automatically gripped at Brendon’s hips, urging him closer and scrambling for skin, swallowing Brendon’s broken groan when his fingers dipped past the waistband of his pants, squirming against the tight fit of his belt, and Brendon’s breath was hot and wet against the corner of his mouth, his jaw, as he pulled away, eyes half-lidded and lips so red Ryan wanted to dive back in, gnaw them a bit with his teeth.

“What?” Ryan managed, only it came out kind of strangled.

Brendon licked his lips. “I read your article.”

“But it’s not. I mean.” He was a little incoherent, but it was _totally understandable_.

“I help Greta with the layout sometimes.”

Ryan nodded. “Okay.” He didn’t know what else to say. He kind of just really wanted to kiss Brendon again. He rubbed a palm over the small of Brendon’s back, pressed his fingers into his spine. “So.”

Brendon flashed a quick look towards Bryar, who stoically held up four fingers. Then Brendon smiled at Ryan. A slow, blooming smile. “Four minutes,” he said, and before Ryan could ask what the hell that meant Brendon was back to kissing him, hands smoothing down to curl into Ryan’s sharp shoulder blades.

It was just as slow as his smile, deep, and Ryan’s mind was empty of everything except the total awesomeness of Brendon’s body tight against his, so close Brendon was almost climbing him, pushing him back against the doorjamb, scrunching his shirt up in his clenching hands until his fingers touched the bare wings of his back. And then someone cleared his throat pointedly loud in Ryan’s ear and he jerked away to see Bryar looming half-threateningly over them.

“Right,” Brendon said, breathy. He let go of Ryan and took a step away and grinned at him. “We’re going to get some dinner. Wanna come?”

Ryan looked at Bryar. Bryar was pretty frightening, his eyes a cold blue, but it didn’t seem like he wanted to eat him or anything. “Uh. Okay?”

*

“God, _finally_,” Ashlee said when Ryan, Brendon and Bryar showed up at their table at the Tiger Den. “It was getting a little ridiculous.”

Brendon had his fingers threaded through Ryan’s. He grinned and looked very pleased with himself and said, “I know.”

Ryan couldn’t help but grin back.


End file.
